Hikaru No Go Fic: Desynchronization (WIP) Part VII, Part I of II
Title: desynchronization. Part VII of ?, Part I of II (WIP)
Main Characters: Ogata, Sai. No pairings currently.
Disclaimer: These lovely characters are the creation of Yumi Hotta and Takeshi Obata. Not mine, I'm just playing in their sandbox.
Spoilers: For the entire series.
Warnings: Ages 16 and up. Mild cursing and sensuality. It's possible the rating will go up eventually. Also, plot-device amnesia and resurrection...
Word Count: Part I, 5847. Part II, 5042.
Notes: Much thanks to my betas harumi and aiwritingfic!
I would apologize for the delay in updating, but this is a really long chapter. So I won't.
All previous chapters can be found here.
desynchronization: Chapter VII, Part I
Twenty moves into the game, Kurata Ouza abruptly stilled, his eyes widening as he took in the goban. Then he raised his head to glower knowingly at Ogata, as if his pre-game suspicions had been wholly confirmed.
Ogata merely arched an eyebrow, keeping his features carefully neutral until Kurata turned his attention back to the goban, although Ogata was rather pleased to notice Kurata's habitually slumped back straighten and stiffen. A few hands later, Kurata even dropped his left arm to the floor, moving it from its usual position (casually draped on his bent leg), as if to brace himself for the oncoming onslaught. Ogata allowed himself a brief, inner smirk at the telling display: Kurata did have uncannily good instincts, after all. Then Ogata turned his full concentration onto Kurata's last hand. Although Ogata knew Black's current position to be the stronger one, he wasn't going to let a single advantage slip through his fingers through a failure to read ahead far enough.
As the game progressed into mid-stage, Ogata felt a little thrill rush down his spine, his pulse accelerating at the sight of the evolving shapes on the goban: his formations were distinctly different from any he'd woven before. Ogata had known, of course, that his play was evolving because of his constant play with Fujiwara, but this was Ogata's first opportunity since meeting Fujiwara to test his skills against another truly talented opponent. Playing Fujiwara demanded that Ogata tap into every last ounce of his ability, to discover new possibilities for plays he'd once thought predictable, and to forge ahead where he was accustomed to holding back. Even so, it still hadn't been sufficient for him to defeat Fujiwara yet, but against Kurata now...
Ogata had been pitted against Kurata with an increasing frequency, and he had found defeating Kurata more of a challenge each time as the younger man's skill and experience increased, the gap always narrowing between them.
Deftly, Ogata placed the finishing stone to a formation that would cut off White's chances of expanding its territory in any of the upper right quadrant.
That gap had become a chasm.
Kurata knew. He continued clacking his stones down with his characteristic resolve as the game slipped into yose, but his shirt was clinging damply to his skin, even though his suit jacket had been shed several hands prior. A bead of sweat rolled down Kurata's forehead, but Kurata remained oblivious to it, his intense eyes fixed on the unsalvageable upper right quadrant.
Kurata's faith in his predictable ability had been shaken. That ability, Ogata suspected, was heavily reliant on Kurata's near-compulsive research, so it was no surprise that Kurata would have been misled if he had based his predictions on kifu from Ogata's latest matches. Ogata had not needed to deploy his new abilities to defeat those opponents with his characteristic efficiency.
Ogata considered the goban, then dipped his hand into the goke to draw out the stone he would use to kill White in the center. Would Kurata appreciate the irony that his own admirable skill was more or less responsible for his little shock today? Ogata certainly did.
Kurata's brow furrowed into a heavy crease as he surveyed the sharp lines of Black cutting into the heart of White, radiating out like spokes on a tire to effectively cut off any hope of White connecting with an outside group. Kurata drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly like a wearied marathon runner. He bent his head.
“Makemashita.”
The flashing and the whirring of cameras flooded the room then, and the observers began to chatter excitedly. Ogata ignored them in favor of removing his glasses and closing his eyes. His head always ached a little after a high-stakes match, and he preferred not to have camera flash blinding him.
“What is this?” Kurata demanded, his voice a mixture of indignation and curiosity.
Ogata deigned to open his eyes. He wiped his glasses and replaced them, then pretended to examine the goban carefully. “Why, I'd say it looks like my victory.”
Kurata was undeterred. “Don't gimme that! Before the match, you said you were playing go with--”
“I hope you don't honestly expect me to answer questions about my personal life,” Ogata interrupted quickly as the door of the room slid open. The observers from the viewing room had arrived, among them Amano with his notebook in hand and pen already uncapped. Ogata sincerely hoped the post-game analysis wouldn't take long. His legs were sore from sitting in seiza for so long, and he doubted anyone present could tell him anything enlightening about the game he'd just played. Ogata wanted to go back to his apartment, eat, and properly savor his victory by reviewing the game with Fujiwara. Fujiwara would probably be finished visiting with Chen Lian-san and her family by now (the old woman apparently liked Fujiwara enough to invite him to dinner frequently; Ogata might have felt a little sympathy for Fujiwara if Fujiwara hadn't gone on about what a “divine and creative” cook she was.)
Kurata crossed his arms petulantly. “There's no point in playing mysterious, Ogata-sensei. You know nothing stays a secret long in this profession anyway.”
“A secret? Kurata-sensei, are you asking Ogata-sensei to reveal the secrets behind his victory?” Amano said with a laugh as he walked across the room. “I'm afraid you shouldn't expect him to be that generous.”
For a tense moment, Ogata thought Kurata would blurt out exactly what they'd been discussing, but instead the other pro brightened at the sight of the reporter. “There's nothing generous about a man who plays like this!” Kurata said with an exaggerated sulk. “Look at how he carved up my territory in the center and the left here. I should have blocked him off with a hane, and pulled back a little here. And if I'd placed a stone here, he would have needed several additional hands to secure his position.”
Ogata blinked as Kurata proceeded to review the game with a frank honesty, his exuberance apparently not hindered by the fact that he'd, well, lost. The way Kurata basked under the spotlight never failed to surprise Ogata. But it was perfectly fine with Ogata, if it meant he could get away with saying less.
“Ah, we need to get a quote from our new challenger! What are your thoughts on this game, Ogata-sensei?” Amano looked at him expectantly, no doubt recalling that sometimes Ogata had a tendency to get snippy with his post-game commentary.
“It was a satisfying game,” Ogata said carefully, not desiring to provide Amano with any overly interesting material (especially since Touya-sensei had started to keep up with Go Weekly online while he was in China.) “The play on both sides was solid, but there were some areas where Kurata-sensei could have done more, as he already pointed out.”
Amano rapped his pen against his notepad, looking faintly disappointed at the bland answer. “Your playing style seems different today, quite brilliant. Is there a reason behind that, some sort of new outlook on the game, or is Touya Meijin just putting you through special training - online Go boot camp, maybe?”
A laugh went around the room at that question, and Ogata smiled, but not at the joke. Let them think that if they liked. “You could say a change of perspective, I suppose. It's a little difficult to explain, though.”
Ogata managed to stay bland and vague during the rest of the interview until Amano lost interest and turned to the other professionals who had come to officiate the match. After posing for a few pictures and making a bit of polite small talk with well-wishers, Ogata headed for the door, intent on making his escape.
“You know I'll find out. And I'll definitely win next time.” Kurata was standing in the hallway, his confident stance more suited to a bullfighter than a go player.
“There isn't anything to 'find out.' I won,” said Ogata.
Kurata rolled his eyes. “Your friend. Or whoever you've been playing go with, and don't expect me to believe it was Touya Meijin. You don't change your go like that playing someone you're already too familiar with, or studying kifu and replaying games. You only improve that quickly from playing someone really good constantly.” An intense emotion flickered over Kurata's face then, his focus turning inwards. “To think... there's someone that good out there that I don't know about.” Kurata looked up then, a huge smile breaking across his features. “That really excites me, somehow. Especially since I'm going to play him too.”
“You certainly have a wild imagination,” Ogata said dismissively, although he was wishing he hadn't made that stray remark before the game. He'd had no idea Kurata was this obsessive.
“Sure do. It's part of what makes me such an amazing player! You'll be regretting not getting my autograph while you had the chance. Well, I'll be seeing you around.” Kurata waved a hand and headed back into the playing room.
With a sigh, Ogata got into the elevator. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. All go players were just a hair crazy, after all.
~ ~ ~
Waya Yoshitaka snapped his cell phone shut. “Damnit,” he muttered - under his breath of course - but the old lady in the seat across the car glared at Waya disapprovingly. Waya ducked his head in embarrassment. Old woman had probably developed bat-like hearing just so she could catch teenagers slipping up.
Well, Waya had a good reason for being irritated: he'd just gotten an apologetic text from his student canceling their shidougo session, something about his boss dumping a last minute assignment on his desk. Although Waya completely understood (it wasn't as if Tanaka-san could just tell his demanding boss “no thanks”), it would have been nice to have received the text before he was almost at Shinjuku. Waya frowned. He might as well head to the salon since returning to his apartment now would mean he'd just wasted a half hour trip, plus he'd already gone to the trouble of putting on a suit. And even a stupid tie in the middle of summer, too, because Isumi-san had insisted that it was necessary to present “a professional image.” Waya tugged at the tie grumpily as he stepped off the train into the humid air. It would be sticking to his neck by the time he'd walked from the station to the salon.
The Iwamoto Go Salon was a little inconvenient because of the distance from Shinjuku Station; it was about a fifteen-minute walk, but the inconvenience was actually in Waya's favor since he'd never seen any other professionals at the small salon. Waya didn't want to have to compete for students, not when he was still just a 3-dan and not yet well-known. So far his only students were Tanaka-san, a salaryman who'd competed with his college's go club and wanted to keep his skills sharp, and Morimoto-san, a retired grandfather who liked talking as much as playing go. But Waya was finding he enjoyed teaching a lot more than he thought he would, although some go pros seemed to regard shidougo as merely a necessary evil to earn enough money to make ends meet. There was just something special about seeing the expression on his students' faces when his explanations clicked. (Plus, Waya privately admitted to himself, it was nice to get to play teacher for a change.)
Waya pushed the door of the salon open, inhaling the familiar scent of cigarette smoke, wood polish, and brewing tea. Only about seven of the salon's twenty tables were occupied, most of the players chatting quietly as they placed their stones and mulled over their moves.
“Oh, good afternoon, Waya-sensei!” called the owner, a portly man with graying hair. He set a stack of worn books on the counter. “You're just in time. I've got a number of joseki books here that I've collected over the years. I'm thinking of setting up a little lending library in that corner over there. No sense in letting the books just collect dust in the backroom, after all. Would you mind taking a quick look and telling me if you'd recommend any of them?”
“Yes sir,” Waya replied, taking the books. He already recognized some of the titles, so it wouldn't take much time to pick out a few that would be appropriate for the skill level of the average player in the salon. “I was wondering if anyone's interested in a teaching game today.”
The owner wiped at his dusty hands with a damp cloth. “Oh, you usually come in with Tanaka-san, don't you? Guess the poor guy had to work overtime again. I'm glad I'm my own boss, with the way some bosses drive their employees.” Then he shook his head. “No, I don't remember anyone asking for a lesson today, although that new fella over there's practically playing shidougo with Muramatsu-san.” With a wink, the owner leaned across the counter to whisper conspiratorially. “Don't tell Muramatsu-san, though. I don't think he's caught on yet.”
Waya followed the owner's line of sight to a corner table he hadn't noticed earlier. Muramatsu-san was sitting across from a tall man with the longest hair Waya had ever seen; it was almost touching the floor. Waya couldn't see the man's face since the man's back was facing him, but Waya knew there weren't any pros with hair that long, at least not at the Tokyo Go Association. So the new guy was giving free shidougo lessons - no wonder no one had asked for a paid lesson. “He's doing shidougo? May I ask what his ranking is?” Waya asked, careful to keep the traces of irritation out of his voice. Shidougo was an art; not just any idiot could do it. Waya had studied under Morishita-sensei for years before he even dared to try teaching shidougo himself.
“Well... we're not exactly sure.” The owner held out a clipboard with the list of the day's customers, and tapped on an entry that had only “Fujiwara” written in an elegant hand. Someone else had scrawled “Amateur 7-dan?” in the ranking slot. “Fujiwara-san says he doesn't compete in events, so I know technically he can't have a 7-dan ranking, but I can't just put him down as a 1-kyuu. He's as strong as anyone I remember playing back when I competed as an amateur.” The owner shook his head. “I'd heard young players keep getting stronger because of the Internet, but I had no idea how much. Fujiwara-san doesn't lose, even playing with a nine-stone handicap.”
“That's pretty good,” Waya said, just to be sociable. Winning with a large handicap wasn't necessarily as impressive as it sounded, depending on the skill level of one's opponents - and the average player in the Iwamoto Go salon just wasn't that good (although Waya wasn't stupid enough to say that aloud.) He himself had beaten casual players on the NetGo server with bigger handicaps than nine stones.
“Hey, why don't you play Fujiwara-san after he finishes that game? You can give him an official rank for me. And I bet he would love to play a real pro, too, since he said he just usually plays with his friends.” With a large grin, the owner added, “Try not to play too rough, Waya-sensei,” and returned to rummaging around the backroom.
“Of course.” Unless the guy was doing a crappy job of teaching shidougo, in which case Waya would feel perfectly justified kicking his ass around the goban. Waya took a seat at the nearest table to the corner table, and pretended to read one of the joseki books while he strained to listen to the conversation between Muramatsu and Fujiwara. He would have preferred to watch the lesson, but Muramatsu was more prickly than most players and didn't like observers.
The two players, however, were largely silent, other than Muramatsu's occasional vocalized thoughts. Waya wondered if the older man was aware of his tendency to speak aloud, and he just didn't care if the other players heard.
“I wonder if I oughtta go here... nah, that sneaky guy's probably plotting something.”
Waya stifled a laugh with his hand, but nearly lost it a few hands later when Muramatsu addressed a captured stone with a “Come to papa, little one.” Hearing a grumpy old man talk like that was almost as entertaining as Ochi tapping out Morse Code on the bathroom stall when he lost.
About fifteen minutes later, Muramatsu acknowledged his defeat. “I don't think I can do much more. You've got me surrounded here and here, and you're about to kill my stones in the center. I could fight you longer, but it won't change the outcome, will it?”
“I'm afraid not,” answered Fujiwara in a tone that managed to sound both gracious and cheerful. “You could play a katatsuki here and save these stones, but you've lost too much territory here to make up the difference.”
“What if I'd done a tsuke at this hand, instead of a hane?”
Waya listened intently as Fujiwara answered Muramatsu's question thoroughly, explaining the consequences of the hypothetical move in terms that a casual player could grasp easily, pausing occasionally to make sure Muramatsu was following. There were no traces of condescension in Fujiwara's voice, like the gloating attitude stronger players sometimes developed when they'd become accustomed to easy wins.
Waya nodded appreciatively. Waya couldn't tell how good Fujiwara's explanation actually was since he couldn't see the goban, but at least now he knew there was no need for a retributive ass-kicking. Fujiwara had respect for shidougo.
“Thanks for the game, Fujiwara-san,” said Muramatsu, and the go stones clattered across the board as the two players sorted them. Muramatsu pushed his chair back with a scrape. “Next time, you'd better not go easy on me just because I'm an old man, and don't think I didn't know you were all along. You're a hundred years too early to fool me.”
“Perhaps you're simply improving,” offered Fujiwara, sounding amused.
“Liar,” retorted Muramatsu with a familiarity that suggested the two men had held this particular conversation many times before.
Muramatsu noticed Waya then, and nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, Waya-sensei. Is that homework there? I thought you young go pros were all dropouts.”
“No sir, these are joseki books, and I'm not a drop--”
Waya broke off abruptly at the sight of Fujiwara, who had half-turned in his chair to look at Waya. There was just no way, Waya thought incredulously, that the decidedly masculine voice he'd been listening to could belong to guy with such a girly face. Fujiwara looked even girlier than Touya ever had (a feat Waya would not have considered possible previously.) But at least with late adolescence, Touya's face had finally sharpened into angles that matched his icy personality. This guy, though, had apparently managed to opt out of puberty, with those soft features and wide eyes. The ruby earrings certainly didn't help matters.
“Cat got your tongue?” Muramatsu arched an eyebrow.
Waya faked a cough to cover that he'd been staring like a dork. “No sir. I was just saying that I'm a professional, and I completed junior high school. So I'm not a dropout.”
“High school dropout, then.”
Obviously, Muramatsu was just being perverse to get a rise out of him in front of the newcomer, so Waya forced himself to hold his tongue in hopes that the old fossil would lose interest.
“Waya-sensei is a go professional?” Now Fujiwara was the one staring, his eyes lit with an eagerness that made Waya shift on his feet. People usually didn't stare at Waya quite like that. (Shindou, yes, not Waya.)
“Yes, for a few years. By the way, would you like to play a game with me? Then I can give you a ranking for your profile here.”
“Yes!! Let's play right now, Sensei!” Fujiwara beamed and clasped his hands together as if Waya had just offered him a million yen. “Please, have a seat!” Fujiwara gestured to the seat Muramatsu had just vacated.
Muramatsu muttered something under his breath about go addicts and wandered off as Waya took the seat cautiously, carefully edging around Fujiwara who had started to hum an odd tune to himself. Waya knew plenty of odd go pros (like Touya and Ochi) but he hadn't realized that the amateurs could be just as weird.
“Shall we nigiri?” Fujiwara said cheerfully as he took the lid off his goke, revealing white stones.
Waya shook his head. “No, I'll play White, but other than that it will be even game so I can determine your ability.”
Fujiwara tilted his head thoughtfully. “Can all professionals give rankings, or is it a specialty?”
“All pros can do it,” Waya said as he exchanged goke with Fujiwara. “Just like all pros are authorized to teach shidougo.”
If Fujiwara had caught the slightly pointed barb, he gave no indication of it, his gaze turned slightly inward for a moment as if he were preoccupied with something else. But that preoccupation had slipped from Fujiwara's face by the time he looked up from fiddling with his goke at his end of the goban.
Waya bowed. “Onegaishimasu.”
“Onegaishimasu,” Fujiwara said, returning the bow.
About twenty hands into the game, Waya furrowed his brow. He'd always prided himself in his ability to get a feel for his opponents quickly by reading their body language in addition to their go, but so far Fujiwara was just confusing him. As soon as Fujiwara had placed his first stone at 17-16, that crazy hyperness had suddenly vanished, his face becoming as serene and inscrutable as a Buddha statue's. Sure, Waya was glad Fujiwara had stopped humming that stupid tune, but it was a little weird to see him undergo a complete 180, especially when Waya had had the guy pegged as the type to show his emotions openly.
And wasn't the ranking important to Fujiwara? Usually people who weren't used to playing with pros got a little nervous their first time, especially if something were at stake, and serious players were almost as fiercely protective of their rankings as pros their titles. Yet Fujiwara displayed neither hesitation nor nervousness, placing his stones as if it were just another game with the salon regulars.
Waya shrugged mentally. Perhaps Fujiwara just possessed a good set of nerves, or an excellent poker face. But they would be out of the beginning stages of the game soon, and Waya needed to focus on developing the framework he'd laid, along with setting a few surprises for Fujiwara. So far Fujiwara's moves had been solid with thoughtful reasoning, and Waya was curious to see how far the other man was capable of going if prodded. After a few moments of consideration, Waya placed a stone at 14-8. 14-8 didn't appear to be significant upon first glance, but if Fujiwara didn't respond to the move soon enough, White's position there would become unassailable.
Fujiwara's eyes riveted to the stone as soon as Waya placed it, his lips pursing to a point. Fujiwara dropped his hand to his lap and drew out a white fan Waya hadn't noticed before. With an elegant flick of his wrist, Fujiwara snapped the fan open, then, face concealed, laid down his response to Waya's move, a keimagakari at 15-10.
15-10? What sort of a response was that supposed to be? It left Black exposed to a pincer from White that would cut off Black's contact with its outside groups. But Fujiwara had probably just reacted too quickly and hadn't noticed Waya's trap; traps were one of Waya's specialties, after all.
Waya continued to lay out the trap, but Fujiwara still did not appear to find it worthy of his notice, instead choosing to play stones elsewhere. Hadn't Fujiwara realized his predicament yet? Waya had been expecting a little more of the player the salon owner held in such esteem. Waya cast an irritable glance across the goban.
Fujiwara met Waya's glance over his fan, but he didn't seem worried at all. Actually, Fujiwara looked pretty damn... amused? Waya did a double take. There was no doubt about it, Fujiwara's eyes were definitely crinkled in amusement and he was looking at Waya like Waya had food or something on his face.
Waya scanned the goban quickly, his pulse accelerating. Was Fujiwara just trying to psych him out, or had Waya missed something? Of course it would be pretty amusing to an amateur to catch a pro making a dumb mistake, but Waya didn't think he'd made any. Lately, his confidence in his play had been growing, and he'd noticed that he seemed to be making fewer and fewer mistakes as a result. No, Waya concluded as he gave the board a final glance-over, he hadn't made any mistakes.
But the niggling feeling remained as Waya continued playing. Maybe it was just the stupid fan - seeing another young player with a fan reminded him of Shindou, and Shindou had the habit of bringing out his fan when he was about to start an ass-kicking. Waya had developed a bit of an aversion to that cheap fan as a result, although he knew it was unhealthy to develop mental blocks towards certain players. I have got to stop overestimating people, especially Shindou, Waya chided himself. Sure, Shindou kept getting stronger, but he wasn't a go god... even though Waya still suspected Shindou had had a connection to s a i at some point. Had had - Shindou's go had fewer and fewer similarities to s a i's classic-style go as he continued to move up, like he was no longer directly influenced by s a i.
Change was inevitable for a talented go player, though. Waya wondered what s a i's go would look like now, if the mystery player deigned to reappear on the Internet. s a i's go had been so strong, yet deceptively simple on the surface. If you didn't read far enough ahead, you wouldn't realize the depth of s a i's go and the extent of the brilliant plans. You'd be caught by--
Suddenly Fujiwara's patterns sharpened into focus, and Waya's heart thudded so loudly he felt it in his eardrums. Waya had been focusing on the pincer movement, but Fujiwara had ignored it because it simply didn't matter - not when Fujiwara had been laying down stones to seize control of the entire area. In a flash of clarity, Waya realized exactly who he was facing.
Waya had played s a i before, after all.
In his mind's eye, Waya saw himself as an insei at the World Amateur Go Championship, speaking to a crowd of enthralled pros and amateurs. It's as if Shusaku has learned modern joseki. But that had been several years ago, and s a i had not remained stagnant, Waya realized as he studied the patterns of Black on the goban with a dawning mixture of awe and fear. s a i's game had grown even more sophisticated and subtle during his absence from the Internet. No wonder Waya hadn't recognized Fujiwara's style immediately, especially since Waya hadn't expected to bump into s a i at some random no-name go salon.
Waya looked up at Fujiwara again. The amusement was gone from Fujiwara's eyes now, replaced by an piercing intensity.
Before, when Waya had less experience, he would have felt paralyzingly overwhelmed by the prospect of playing s a i in person. But he'd played Morishita-sensei in several official matches by now, and Sensei felt every bit as intimidating as Fujiwara. So Waya stared back at Fujiwara, hardening his resolve to win the game. I'm going to come after you with everything I've got.
Waya quickly formulated an aggressive plan to halt Fujiwara's progress. Usually Waya didn't like to extend himself quite so much, but nothing less would stop Black. Waya was certain Fujiwara's aim was to connect Black in the center with Black in Waya's right quadrant. If Fujiwara managed that, White in Waya's right would be cut off from the White that had invaded Fujiwara's right quadrant, and White's territory would be halved.
Gritting his teeth, Waya started an attack in the center using an approach Morishita-sensei had just discussed in last week's study. Sensei had mentioned that the playing such approach in the center was regarded as unusual and risky - perhaps prohibitively so - but Waya felt certain that his only chance at beating Fujiwara was to catch him by surprise. There was no way Waya could hope to challenge Fujiwara by merely playing standard moves, not when s a i's knowledge of classic go was so complete that Waya could barely grasp its depth at times.
As Waya fleshed out his attack in the center, he altered the shape from what they'd discussed in the study. The alterations would make the shape more solid and harder for Black to break through.
A sudden inhalation made Waya jerk his head up. Fujiwara had gone motionless behind his fan, but his eyes glittered as he stared at White in the center.
Fujiwara was happy. Somehow, Waya doubted that boded well for him.
Black began a punishing assault on White's formation in the center, encircling the stones in order to cut the group adrift. White fought back fiercely, but Black danced around White's attacks easily. He's outreading me, Waya realized with a sinking feeling. How far ahead could s a i read?
After a few more hands, White lay dead in the center and Waya knew he had to concede defeat. He could feasibly regain a few points during the endgame, but it wouldn't be enough to make up the difference, even with komi.
“Makemashita.” Waya bowed low over the goban. He heard Fujiwara's fan snap shut, and when Waya straightened up, the other man was smiling.
“It was a wonderful game. Thank you for playing me, Sensei.”
“Don't call me that,” Waya mumbled, raking his fingers through his bangs. Rank s a i indeed. If there were any go gods, they had a perverse sense of humor. “I don't have anything to teach you.”
Fujiwara pursed his lips indignantly. “What do you call this, then?” He waved his fan at the center of the board. “I've never seen this played before, not at this location!”
“It didn't work.”
“The concept was good, and the execution was not flawed either. But I have more experience than you do, Waya-sensei, so I was still able to take control of the area.”
Waya felt his heart start to race again. Of course he'd lost to s a i, that really wasn't anything to get depressed or embarrassed about, even if the man was technically an amateur. More importantly, he was actually with s a i in person. He could actually get to know the mysterious NetGo player. That Chinese boyfriend of Isumi's would kill for a chance like this, Waya thought smugly.
“How long have you been playing go?” Waya said. Probably since he was freakin' two years old like Touya. The other man had placed his stones with a fluid grace that Waya envied, moving them from goke to goban as if the stones were merely extensions of his fingers. Such skill came only with a tremendous amount of practice.
A frown flitted across Fujiwara's face. “I'm not sure, exactly...”
“Oh, how old are you? You really don't seem much older than I am, but the way you play reminds me of my sensei, like you've been playing for like a long time.”
“I'm in my twenties,” Fujiwara said, but his eyes slid to the side as if he were nervous, and he shifted back into his chair, putting more distance between them.
He doesn't like me asking him questions about his personal life, Waya realized, remembering how silent s a i had been on the NetGo servers. s a i had never even chatted with anyone - with the sole exception of himself. Some people had theorized that s a i had a very pressing reason to remain anonymous, and he had stopped playing NetGo because people had been trying to trace his IP address. Waya narrowed his eyes. A dark secret would explain why Fujiwara hadn't gone pro and why he was playing in some little unknown salon where no one was likely to recognize his play. Perhaps “Fujiwara” wasn't even his real name.
But on the other hand, if he pressed Fujiwara too much, the other man might simply disappear again. Waya really wanted to learn more about s a i, but satisfying his curiosity about Fujiwara would have to wait. Fujiwara's secret probably wasn't that bad (unless Fujiwara's secret was that he liked to ax murder go-playing redheads, and frankly Waya thought he could take Fujiwara in a fight anyway.) Getting a chance to play Fujiwara again was more important, and if Waya gradually established a rapport with Fujiwara, then the other man might start to open up. Maybe Waya would even get a chance to ask Fujiwara about his connection with Shindou.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you a personal question like that, when we've just met!” Waya said, feigning sheepishness. “I just got excited. This was a really great game, even though I lost. Would you explain to me what moves I should have played in the center instead?”
Fujiwara lit up then, and he launched into a thorough explanation for Waya. He really does enjoy teaching, Waya thought. By the time they had finished discussing the game, Fujiwara's earlier tension had disappeared, and Fujiwara readily agreed to meeting Waya at the salon again the following week for another game.
On his way out of the salon, Waya told the owner that it would be perfectly acceptable to rate Fujiwara as an Amateur 7-dan. Waya was proud that he managed to keep a straight face.
Part II.
Main Characters: Ogata, Sai. No pairings currently.
Disclaimer: These lovely characters are the creation of Yumi Hotta and Takeshi Obata. Not mine, I'm just playing in their sandbox.
Spoilers: For the entire series.
Warnings: Ages 16 and up. Mild cursing and sensuality. It's possible the rating will go up eventually. Also, plot-device amnesia and resurrection...
Word Count: Part I, 5847. Part II, 5042.
Notes: Much thanks to my betas harumi and aiwritingfic!
I would apologize for the delay in updating, but this is a really long chapter. So I won't.
All previous chapters can be found here.
desynchronization: Chapter VII, Part I
Twenty moves into the game, Kurata Ouza abruptly stilled, his eyes widening as he took in the goban. Then he raised his head to glower knowingly at Ogata, as if his pre-game suspicions had been wholly confirmed.
Ogata merely arched an eyebrow, keeping his features carefully neutral until Kurata turned his attention back to the goban, although Ogata was rather pleased to notice Kurata's habitually slumped back straighten and stiffen. A few hands later, Kurata even dropped his left arm to the floor, moving it from its usual position (casually draped on his bent leg), as if to brace himself for the oncoming onslaught. Ogata allowed himself a brief, inner smirk at the telling display: Kurata did have uncannily good instincts, after all. Then Ogata turned his full concentration onto Kurata's last hand. Although Ogata knew Black's current position to be the stronger one, he wasn't going to let a single advantage slip through his fingers through a failure to read ahead far enough.
As the game progressed into mid-stage, Ogata felt a little thrill rush down his spine, his pulse accelerating at the sight of the evolving shapes on the goban: his formations were distinctly different from any he'd woven before. Ogata had known, of course, that his play was evolving because of his constant play with Fujiwara, but this was Ogata's first opportunity since meeting Fujiwara to test his skills against another truly talented opponent. Playing Fujiwara demanded that Ogata tap into every last ounce of his ability, to discover new possibilities for plays he'd once thought predictable, and to forge ahead where he was accustomed to holding back. Even so, it still hadn't been sufficient for him to defeat Fujiwara yet, but against Kurata now...
Ogata had been pitted against Kurata with an increasing frequency, and he had found defeating Kurata more of a challenge each time as the younger man's skill and experience increased, the gap always narrowing between them.
Deftly, Ogata placed the finishing stone to a formation that would cut off White's chances of expanding its territory in any of the upper right quadrant.
That gap had become a chasm.
Kurata knew. He continued clacking his stones down with his characteristic resolve as the game slipped into yose, but his shirt was clinging damply to his skin, even though his suit jacket had been shed several hands prior. A bead of sweat rolled down Kurata's forehead, but Kurata remained oblivious to it, his intense eyes fixed on the unsalvageable upper right quadrant.
Kurata's faith in his predictable ability had been shaken. That ability, Ogata suspected, was heavily reliant on Kurata's near-compulsive research, so it was no surprise that Kurata would have been misled if he had based his predictions on kifu from Ogata's latest matches. Ogata had not needed to deploy his new abilities to defeat those opponents with his characteristic efficiency.
Ogata considered the goban, then dipped his hand into the goke to draw out the stone he would use to kill White in the center. Would Kurata appreciate the irony that his own admirable skill was more or less responsible for his little shock today? Ogata certainly did.
Kurata's brow furrowed into a heavy crease as he surveyed the sharp lines of Black cutting into the heart of White, radiating out like spokes on a tire to effectively cut off any hope of White connecting with an outside group. Kurata drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly like a wearied marathon runner. He bent his head.
“Makemashita.”
The flashing and the whirring of cameras flooded the room then, and the observers began to chatter excitedly. Ogata ignored them in favor of removing his glasses and closing his eyes. His head always ached a little after a high-stakes match, and he preferred not to have camera flash blinding him.
“What is this?” Kurata demanded, his voice a mixture of indignation and curiosity.
Ogata deigned to open his eyes. He wiped his glasses and replaced them, then pretended to examine the goban carefully. “Why, I'd say it looks like my victory.”
Kurata was undeterred. “Don't gimme that! Before the match, you said you were playing go with--”
“I hope you don't honestly expect me to answer questions about my personal life,” Ogata interrupted quickly as the door of the room slid open. The observers from the viewing room had arrived, among them Amano with his notebook in hand and pen already uncapped. Ogata sincerely hoped the post-game analysis wouldn't take long. His legs were sore from sitting in seiza for so long, and he doubted anyone present could tell him anything enlightening about the game he'd just played. Ogata wanted to go back to his apartment, eat, and properly savor his victory by reviewing the game with Fujiwara. Fujiwara would probably be finished visiting with Chen Lian-san and her family by now (the old woman apparently liked Fujiwara enough to invite him to dinner frequently; Ogata might have felt a little sympathy for Fujiwara if Fujiwara hadn't gone on about what a “divine and creative” cook she was.)
Kurata crossed his arms petulantly. “There's no point in playing mysterious, Ogata-sensei. You know nothing stays a secret long in this profession anyway.”
“A secret? Kurata-sensei, are you asking Ogata-sensei to reveal the secrets behind his victory?” Amano said with a laugh as he walked across the room. “I'm afraid you shouldn't expect him to be that generous.”
For a tense moment, Ogata thought Kurata would blurt out exactly what they'd been discussing, but instead the other pro brightened at the sight of the reporter. “There's nothing generous about a man who plays like this!” Kurata said with an exaggerated sulk. “Look at how he carved up my territory in the center and the left here. I should have blocked him off with a hane, and pulled back a little here. And if I'd placed a stone here, he would have needed several additional hands to secure his position.”
Ogata blinked as Kurata proceeded to review the game with a frank honesty, his exuberance apparently not hindered by the fact that he'd, well, lost. The way Kurata basked under the spotlight never failed to surprise Ogata. But it was perfectly fine with Ogata, if it meant he could get away with saying less.
“Ah, we need to get a quote from our new challenger! What are your thoughts on this game, Ogata-sensei?” Amano looked at him expectantly, no doubt recalling that sometimes Ogata had a tendency to get snippy with his post-game commentary.
“It was a satisfying game,” Ogata said carefully, not desiring to provide Amano with any overly interesting material (especially since Touya-sensei had started to keep up with Go Weekly online while he was in China.) “The play on both sides was solid, but there were some areas where Kurata-sensei could have done more, as he already pointed out.”
Amano rapped his pen against his notepad, looking faintly disappointed at the bland answer. “Your playing style seems different today, quite brilliant. Is there a reason behind that, some sort of new outlook on the game, or is Touya Meijin just putting you through special training - online Go boot camp, maybe?”
A laugh went around the room at that question, and Ogata smiled, but not at the joke. Let them think that if they liked. “You could say a change of perspective, I suppose. It's a little difficult to explain, though.”
Ogata managed to stay bland and vague during the rest of the interview until Amano lost interest and turned to the other professionals who had come to officiate the match. After posing for a few pictures and making a bit of polite small talk with well-wishers, Ogata headed for the door, intent on making his escape.
“You know I'll find out. And I'll definitely win next time.” Kurata was standing in the hallway, his confident stance more suited to a bullfighter than a go player.
“There isn't anything to 'find out.' I won,” said Ogata.
Kurata rolled his eyes. “Your friend. Or whoever you've been playing go with, and don't expect me to believe it was Touya Meijin. You don't change your go like that playing someone you're already too familiar with, or studying kifu and replaying games. You only improve that quickly from playing someone really good constantly.” An intense emotion flickered over Kurata's face then, his focus turning inwards. “To think... there's someone that good out there that I don't know about.” Kurata looked up then, a huge smile breaking across his features. “That really excites me, somehow. Especially since I'm going to play him too.”
“You certainly have a wild imagination,” Ogata said dismissively, although he was wishing he hadn't made that stray remark before the game. He'd had no idea Kurata was this obsessive.
“Sure do. It's part of what makes me such an amazing player! You'll be regretting not getting my autograph while you had the chance. Well, I'll be seeing you around.” Kurata waved a hand and headed back into the playing room.
With a sigh, Ogata got into the elevator. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. All go players were just a hair crazy, after all.
~ ~ ~
Waya Yoshitaka snapped his cell phone shut. “Damnit,” he muttered - under his breath of course - but the old lady in the seat across the car glared at Waya disapprovingly. Waya ducked his head in embarrassment. Old woman had probably developed bat-like hearing just so she could catch teenagers slipping up.
Well, Waya had a good reason for being irritated: he'd just gotten an apologetic text from his student canceling their shidougo session, something about his boss dumping a last minute assignment on his desk. Although Waya completely understood (it wasn't as if Tanaka-san could just tell his demanding boss “no thanks”), it would have been nice to have received the text before he was almost at Shinjuku. Waya frowned. He might as well head to the salon since returning to his apartment now would mean he'd just wasted a half hour trip, plus he'd already gone to the trouble of putting on a suit. And even a stupid tie in the middle of summer, too, because Isumi-san had insisted that it was necessary to present “a professional image.” Waya tugged at the tie grumpily as he stepped off the train into the humid air. It would be sticking to his neck by the time he'd walked from the station to the salon.
The Iwamoto Go Salon was a little inconvenient because of the distance from Shinjuku Station; it was about a fifteen-minute walk, but the inconvenience was actually in Waya's favor since he'd never seen any other professionals at the small salon. Waya didn't want to have to compete for students, not when he was still just a 3-dan and not yet well-known. So far his only students were Tanaka-san, a salaryman who'd competed with his college's go club and wanted to keep his skills sharp, and Morimoto-san, a retired grandfather who liked talking as much as playing go. But Waya was finding he enjoyed teaching a lot more than he thought he would, although some go pros seemed to regard shidougo as merely a necessary evil to earn enough money to make ends meet. There was just something special about seeing the expression on his students' faces when his explanations clicked. (Plus, Waya privately admitted to himself, it was nice to get to play teacher for a change.)
Waya pushed the door of the salon open, inhaling the familiar scent of cigarette smoke, wood polish, and brewing tea. Only about seven of the salon's twenty tables were occupied, most of the players chatting quietly as they placed their stones and mulled over their moves.
“Oh, good afternoon, Waya-sensei!” called the owner, a portly man with graying hair. He set a stack of worn books on the counter. “You're just in time. I've got a number of joseki books here that I've collected over the years. I'm thinking of setting up a little lending library in that corner over there. No sense in letting the books just collect dust in the backroom, after all. Would you mind taking a quick look and telling me if you'd recommend any of them?”
“Yes sir,” Waya replied, taking the books. He already recognized some of the titles, so it wouldn't take much time to pick out a few that would be appropriate for the skill level of the average player in the salon. “I was wondering if anyone's interested in a teaching game today.”
The owner wiped at his dusty hands with a damp cloth. “Oh, you usually come in with Tanaka-san, don't you? Guess the poor guy had to work overtime again. I'm glad I'm my own boss, with the way some bosses drive their employees.” Then he shook his head. “No, I don't remember anyone asking for a lesson today, although that new fella over there's practically playing shidougo with Muramatsu-san.” With a wink, the owner leaned across the counter to whisper conspiratorially. “Don't tell Muramatsu-san, though. I don't think he's caught on yet.”
Waya followed the owner's line of sight to a corner table he hadn't noticed earlier. Muramatsu-san was sitting across from a tall man with the longest hair Waya had ever seen; it was almost touching the floor. Waya couldn't see the man's face since the man's back was facing him, but Waya knew there weren't any pros with hair that long, at least not at the Tokyo Go Association. So the new guy was giving free shidougo lessons - no wonder no one had asked for a paid lesson. “He's doing shidougo? May I ask what his ranking is?” Waya asked, careful to keep the traces of irritation out of his voice. Shidougo was an art; not just any idiot could do it. Waya had studied under Morishita-sensei for years before he even dared to try teaching shidougo himself.
“Well... we're not exactly sure.” The owner held out a clipboard with the list of the day's customers, and tapped on an entry that had only “Fujiwara” written in an elegant hand. Someone else had scrawled “Amateur 7-dan?” in the ranking slot. “Fujiwara-san says he doesn't compete in events, so I know technically he can't have a 7-dan ranking, but I can't just put him down as a 1-kyuu. He's as strong as anyone I remember playing back when I competed as an amateur.” The owner shook his head. “I'd heard young players keep getting stronger because of the Internet, but I had no idea how much. Fujiwara-san doesn't lose, even playing with a nine-stone handicap.”
“That's pretty good,” Waya said, just to be sociable. Winning with a large handicap wasn't necessarily as impressive as it sounded, depending on the skill level of one's opponents - and the average player in the Iwamoto Go salon just wasn't that good (although Waya wasn't stupid enough to say that aloud.) He himself had beaten casual players on the NetGo server with bigger handicaps than nine stones.
“Hey, why don't you play Fujiwara-san after he finishes that game? You can give him an official rank for me. And I bet he would love to play a real pro, too, since he said he just usually plays with his friends.” With a large grin, the owner added, “Try not to play too rough, Waya-sensei,” and returned to rummaging around the backroom.
“Of course.” Unless the guy was doing a crappy job of teaching shidougo, in which case Waya would feel perfectly justified kicking his ass around the goban. Waya took a seat at the nearest table to the corner table, and pretended to read one of the joseki books while he strained to listen to the conversation between Muramatsu and Fujiwara. He would have preferred to watch the lesson, but Muramatsu was more prickly than most players and didn't like observers.
The two players, however, were largely silent, other than Muramatsu's occasional vocalized thoughts. Waya wondered if the older man was aware of his tendency to speak aloud, and he just didn't care if the other players heard.
“I wonder if I oughtta go here... nah, that sneaky guy's probably plotting something.”
Waya stifled a laugh with his hand, but nearly lost it a few hands later when Muramatsu addressed a captured stone with a “Come to papa, little one.” Hearing a grumpy old man talk like that was almost as entertaining as Ochi tapping out Morse Code on the bathroom stall when he lost.
About fifteen minutes later, Muramatsu acknowledged his defeat. “I don't think I can do much more. You've got me surrounded here and here, and you're about to kill my stones in the center. I could fight you longer, but it won't change the outcome, will it?”
“I'm afraid not,” answered Fujiwara in a tone that managed to sound both gracious and cheerful. “You could play a katatsuki here and save these stones, but you've lost too much territory here to make up the difference.”
“What if I'd done a tsuke at this hand, instead of a hane?”
Waya listened intently as Fujiwara answered Muramatsu's question thoroughly, explaining the consequences of the hypothetical move in terms that a casual player could grasp easily, pausing occasionally to make sure Muramatsu was following. There were no traces of condescension in Fujiwara's voice, like the gloating attitude stronger players sometimes developed when they'd become accustomed to easy wins.
Waya nodded appreciatively. Waya couldn't tell how good Fujiwara's explanation actually was since he couldn't see the goban, but at least now he knew there was no need for a retributive ass-kicking. Fujiwara had respect for shidougo.
“Thanks for the game, Fujiwara-san,” said Muramatsu, and the go stones clattered across the board as the two players sorted them. Muramatsu pushed his chair back with a scrape. “Next time, you'd better not go easy on me just because I'm an old man, and don't think I didn't know you were all along. You're a hundred years too early to fool me.”
“Perhaps you're simply improving,” offered Fujiwara, sounding amused.
“Liar,” retorted Muramatsu with a familiarity that suggested the two men had held this particular conversation many times before.
Muramatsu noticed Waya then, and nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, Waya-sensei. Is that homework there? I thought you young go pros were all dropouts.”
“No sir, these are joseki books, and I'm not a drop--”
Waya broke off abruptly at the sight of Fujiwara, who had half-turned in his chair to look at Waya. There was just no way, Waya thought incredulously, that the decidedly masculine voice he'd been listening to could belong to guy with such a girly face. Fujiwara looked even girlier than Touya ever had (a feat Waya would not have considered possible previously.) But at least with late adolescence, Touya's face had finally sharpened into angles that matched his icy personality. This guy, though, had apparently managed to opt out of puberty, with those soft features and wide eyes. The ruby earrings certainly didn't help matters.
“Cat got your tongue?” Muramatsu arched an eyebrow.
Waya faked a cough to cover that he'd been staring like a dork. “No sir. I was just saying that I'm a professional, and I completed junior high school. So I'm not a dropout.”
“High school dropout, then.”
Obviously, Muramatsu was just being perverse to get a rise out of him in front of the newcomer, so Waya forced himself to hold his tongue in hopes that the old fossil would lose interest.
“Waya-sensei is a go professional?” Now Fujiwara was the one staring, his eyes lit with an eagerness that made Waya shift on his feet. People usually didn't stare at Waya quite like that. (Shindou, yes, not Waya.)
“Yes, for a few years. By the way, would you like to play a game with me? Then I can give you a ranking for your profile here.”
“Yes!! Let's play right now, Sensei!” Fujiwara beamed and clasped his hands together as if Waya had just offered him a million yen. “Please, have a seat!” Fujiwara gestured to the seat Muramatsu had just vacated.
Muramatsu muttered something under his breath about go addicts and wandered off as Waya took the seat cautiously, carefully edging around Fujiwara who had started to hum an odd tune to himself. Waya knew plenty of odd go pros (like Touya and Ochi) but he hadn't realized that the amateurs could be just as weird.
“Shall we nigiri?” Fujiwara said cheerfully as he took the lid off his goke, revealing white stones.
Waya shook his head. “No, I'll play White, but other than that it will be even game so I can determine your ability.”
Fujiwara tilted his head thoughtfully. “Can all professionals give rankings, or is it a specialty?”
“All pros can do it,” Waya said as he exchanged goke with Fujiwara. “Just like all pros are authorized to teach shidougo.”
If Fujiwara had caught the slightly pointed barb, he gave no indication of it, his gaze turned slightly inward for a moment as if he were preoccupied with something else. But that preoccupation had slipped from Fujiwara's face by the time he looked up from fiddling with his goke at his end of the goban.
Waya bowed. “Onegaishimasu.”
“Onegaishimasu,” Fujiwara said, returning the bow.
About twenty hands into the game, Waya furrowed his brow. He'd always prided himself in his ability to get a feel for his opponents quickly by reading their body language in addition to their go, but so far Fujiwara was just confusing him. As soon as Fujiwara had placed his first stone at 17-16, that crazy hyperness had suddenly vanished, his face becoming as serene and inscrutable as a Buddha statue's. Sure, Waya was glad Fujiwara had stopped humming that stupid tune, but it was a little weird to see him undergo a complete 180, especially when Waya had had the guy pegged as the type to show his emotions openly.
And wasn't the ranking important to Fujiwara? Usually people who weren't used to playing with pros got a little nervous their first time, especially if something were at stake, and serious players were almost as fiercely protective of their rankings as pros their titles. Yet Fujiwara displayed neither hesitation nor nervousness, placing his stones as if it were just another game with the salon regulars.
Waya shrugged mentally. Perhaps Fujiwara just possessed a good set of nerves, or an excellent poker face. But they would be out of the beginning stages of the game soon, and Waya needed to focus on developing the framework he'd laid, along with setting a few surprises for Fujiwara. So far Fujiwara's moves had been solid with thoughtful reasoning, and Waya was curious to see how far the other man was capable of going if prodded. After a few moments of consideration, Waya placed a stone at 14-8. 14-8 didn't appear to be significant upon first glance, but if Fujiwara didn't respond to the move soon enough, White's position there would become unassailable.
Fujiwara's eyes riveted to the stone as soon as Waya placed it, his lips pursing to a point. Fujiwara dropped his hand to his lap and drew out a white fan Waya hadn't noticed before. With an elegant flick of his wrist, Fujiwara snapped the fan open, then, face concealed, laid down his response to Waya's move, a keimagakari at 15-10.
15-10? What sort of a response was that supposed to be? It left Black exposed to a pincer from White that would cut off Black's contact with its outside groups. But Fujiwara had probably just reacted too quickly and hadn't noticed Waya's trap; traps were one of Waya's specialties, after all.
Waya continued to lay out the trap, but Fujiwara still did not appear to find it worthy of his notice, instead choosing to play stones elsewhere. Hadn't Fujiwara realized his predicament yet? Waya had been expecting a little more of the player the salon owner held in such esteem. Waya cast an irritable glance across the goban.
Fujiwara met Waya's glance over his fan, but he didn't seem worried at all. Actually, Fujiwara looked pretty damn... amused? Waya did a double take. There was no doubt about it, Fujiwara's eyes were definitely crinkled in amusement and he was looking at Waya like Waya had food or something on his face.
Waya scanned the goban quickly, his pulse accelerating. Was Fujiwara just trying to psych him out, or had Waya missed something? Of course it would be pretty amusing to an amateur to catch a pro making a dumb mistake, but Waya didn't think he'd made any. Lately, his confidence in his play had been growing, and he'd noticed that he seemed to be making fewer and fewer mistakes as a result. No, Waya concluded as he gave the board a final glance-over, he hadn't made any mistakes.
But the niggling feeling remained as Waya continued playing. Maybe it was just the stupid fan - seeing another young player with a fan reminded him of Shindou, and Shindou had the habit of bringing out his fan when he was about to start an ass-kicking. Waya had developed a bit of an aversion to that cheap fan as a result, although he knew it was unhealthy to develop mental blocks towards certain players. I have got to stop overestimating people, especially Shindou, Waya chided himself. Sure, Shindou kept getting stronger, but he wasn't a go god... even though Waya still suspected Shindou had had a connection to s a i at some point. Had had - Shindou's go had fewer and fewer similarities to s a i's classic-style go as he continued to move up, like he was no longer directly influenced by s a i.
Change was inevitable for a talented go player, though. Waya wondered what s a i's go would look like now, if the mystery player deigned to reappear on the Internet. s a i's go had been so strong, yet deceptively simple on the surface. If you didn't read far enough ahead, you wouldn't realize the depth of s a i's go and the extent of the brilliant plans. You'd be caught by--
Suddenly Fujiwara's patterns sharpened into focus, and Waya's heart thudded so loudly he felt it in his eardrums. Waya had been focusing on the pincer movement, but Fujiwara had ignored it because it simply didn't matter - not when Fujiwara had been laying down stones to seize control of the entire area. In a flash of clarity, Waya realized exactly who he was facing.
Waya had played s a i before, after all.
In his mind's eye, Waya saw himself as an insei at the World Amateur Go Championship, speaking to a crowd of enthralled pros and amateurs. It's as if Shusaku has learned modern joseki. But that had been several years ago, and s a i had not remained stagnant, Waya realized as he studied the patterns of Black on the goban with a dawning mixture of awe and fear. s a i's game had grown even more sophisticated and subtle during his absence from the Internet. No wonder Waya hadn't recognized Fujiwara's style immediately, especially since Waya hadn't expected to bump into s a i at some random no-name go salon.
Waya looked up at Fujiwara again. The amusement was gone from Fujiwara's eyes now, replaced by an piercing intensity.
Before, when Waya had less experience, he would have felt paralyzingly overwhelmed by the prospect of playing s a i in person. But he'd played Morishita-sensei in several official matches by now, and Sensei felt every bit as intimidating as Fujiwara. So Waya stared back at Fujiwara, hardening his resolve to win the game. I'm going to come after you with everything I've got.
Waya quickly formulated an aggressive plan to halt Fujiwara's progress. Usually Waya didn't like to extend himself quite so much, but nothing less would stop Black. Waya was certain Fujiwara's aim was to connect Black in the center with Black in Waya's right quadrant. If Fujiwara managed that, White in Waya's right would be cut off from the White that had invaded Fujiwara's right quadrant, and White's territory would be halved.
Gritting his teeth, Waya started an attack in the center using an approach Morishita-sensei had just discussed in last week's study. Sensei had mentioned that the playing such approach in the center was regarded as unusual and risky - perhaps prohibitively so - but Waya felt certain that his only chance at beating Fujiwara was to catch him by surprise. There was no way Waya could hope to challenge Fujiwara by merely playing standard moves, not when s a i's knowledge of classic go was so complete that Waya could barely grasp its depth at times.
As Waya fleshed out his attack in the center, he altered the shape from what they'd discussed in the study. The alterations would make the shape more solid and harder for Black to break through.
A sudden inhalation made Waya jerk his head up. Fujiwara had gone motionless behind his fan, but his eyes glittered as he stared at White in the center.
Fujiwara was happy. Somehow, Waya doubted that boded well for him.
Black began a punishing assault on White's formation in the center, encircling the stones in order to cut the group adrift. White fought back fiercely, but Black danced around White's attacks easily. He's outreading me, Waya realized with a sinking feeling. How far ahead could s a i read?
After a few more hands, White lay dead in the center and Waya knew he had to concede defeat. He could feasibly regain a few points during the endgame, but it wouldn't be enough to make up the difference, even with komi.
“Makemashita.” Waya bowed low over the goban. He heard Fujiwara's fan snap shut, and when Waya straightened up, the other man was smiling.
“It was a wonderful game. Thank you for playing me, Sensei.”
“Don't call me that,” Waya mumbled, raking his fingers through his bangs. Rank s a i indeed. If there were any go gods, they had a perverse sense of humor. “I don't have anything to teach you.”
Fujiwara pursed his lips indignantly. “What do you call this, then?” He waved his fan at the center of the board. “I've never seen this played before, not at this location!”
“It didn't work.”
“The concept was good, and the execution was not flawed either. But I have more experience than you do, Waya-sensei, so I was still able to take control of the area.”
Waya felt his heart start to race again. Of course he'd lost to s a i, that really wasn't anything to get depressed or embarrassed about, even if the man was technically an amateur. More importantly, he was actually with s a i in person. He could actually get to know the mysterious NetGo player. That Chinese boyfriend of Isumi's would kill for a chance like this, Waya thought smugly.
“How long have you been playing go?” Waya said. Probably since he was freakin' two years old like Touya. The other man had placed his stones with a fluid grace that Waya envied, moving them from goke to goban as if the stones were merely extensions of his fingers. Such skill came only with a tremendous amount of practice.
A frown flitted across Fujiwara's face. “I'm not sure, exactly...”
“Oh, how old are you? You really don't seem much older than I am, but the way you play reminds me of my sensei, like you've been playing for like a long time.”
“I'm in my twenties,” Fujiwara said, but his eyes slid to the side as if he were nervous, and he shifted back into his chair, putting more distance between them.
He doesn't like me asking him questions about his personal life, Waya realized, remembering how silent s a i had been on the NetGo servers. s a i had never even chatted with anyone - with the sole exception of himself. Some people had theorized that s a i had a very pressing reason to remain anonymous, and he had stopped playing NetGo because people had been trying to trace his IP address. Waya narrowed his eyes. A dark secret would explain why Fujiwara hadn't gone pro and why he was playing in some little unknown salon where no one was likely to recognize his play. Perhaps “Fujiwara” wasn't even his real name.
But on the other hand, if he pressed Fujiwara too much, the other man might simply disappear again. Waya really wanted to learn more about s a i, but satisfying his curiosity about Fujiwara would have to wait. Fujiwara's secret probably wasn't that bad (unless Fujiwara's secret was that he liked to ax murder go-playing redheads, and frankly Waya thought he could take Fujiwara in a fight anyway.) Getting a chance to play Fujiwara again was more important, and if Waya gradually established a rapport with Fujiwara, then the other man might start to open up. Maybe Waya would even get a chance to ask Fujiwara about his connection with Shindou.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you a personal question like that, when we've just met!” Waya said, feigning sheepishness. “I just got excited. This was a really great game, even though I lost. Would you explain to me what moves I should have played in the center instead?”
Fujiwara lit up then, and he launched into a thorough explanation for Waya. He really does enjoy teaching, Waya thought. By the time they had finished discussing the game, Fujiwara's earlier tension had disappeared, and Fujiwara readily agreed to meeting Waya at the salon again the following week for another game.
On his way out of the salon, Waya told the owner that it would be perfectly acceptable to rate Fujiwara as an Amateur 7-dan. Waya was proud that he managed to keep a straight face.
Part II.