Disclaimer: Don't own E21. Er. Of course? o.O

Author's Note: I think I might have characterized Hiruma wrong. Dammit.

Originally written for 31days; a community on LiveJournal that has excellent themes.

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Training

It was another team, another game, and he didn't know the name or the date because Hiruma had been more anxious than usual and this anxiety had manifested in dragging the team out of its beds slightly before the dawn cracked every morning, firing a large load of bullets at them until they did their callisthenics. He had forgotten what a bed felt like, and had nearly been shot three times, which was better than Kurita, who was still mournfully nursing his lunch. (It had miraculously turned into a bullet sandwich, and the only factor that had prevented Kurita from eating it anyway had been the fact that Hiruma had carefully made them too big for him to swallow and too hard for him to chew to bits.)

"I don't give a fucking dog's crap for the rest of the team." He announced to the team, most of whom had scattered to the far ends of the field and were collapsing wherever they thought they could go unseen. "I SEE YOU UNDER THAT TIRE YOU FUCKING MONKEY. GET UP AND MOVE. But they've got a hell of a runner, and since Eyeshield 21 is practically the fucking logo for the Devil Bats, if he happens to get outtrun—" (--he would then be promptly brained by the butt of a rifle and shot--) "the rest of the fucking team had better be fucking brilliant."

"How fast is he?" Sena (the suicidal) inquired, pausing in his laps for long enough to ask. Hiruma stared down his sharp nose at him and hefted his gun meaningfully.

"I'M RUNNING NOW."

"Pretty fucking fast, fucking midget. It's gonna be like the fucking Twig versus fucking James Bond." Hiruma said, apparently unimpressed with his speed. Then, thoughtfully, he grinned a wide mouthful of fangs.

"Not too fucking shabby." He remarked to the bloody air, and grinned more widely still. "Twiggy versus James fucking Bond. Gotta go make some posters up, fucking shrimp. Keep doing your exercises."

Sena glowered mournfully at the sky, because he suspected that Hiruma had plated his back with glare-sensitive material and he wasn't particularly keen on giving the quarterback more ammo with which to fire at him.

When he got enough muscles and he was promoted from "fucking midget" to "fucking former-midget who is now very tall" or, hopefully, "fucking giant", he was going to kick Hiruma's ass.

Then, because he couldn't conceive of a reality in which this could happen without getting himself shot, he would move to Mongolia and hope that was far enough.

end

(The team on Sunday turned out to be a bunch of gorillas whose fastest speed was clocked at eight seconds.

Hiruma grinned.

Becoming a giant, Sena thought fervently, couldn't happen soon enough.)