#amendment; thread

        “I’m outta here.  Peace!”

        The sun was blistering hot on his shoulders.  A trickle of sweat dripped down his back and his forehead, harsh reminders of the day’s training.  The old kahuna Hala enthusiastically put him to work, telling him that manual labor built character.  Some character, Guzma remembered thinking, scoffing as he completed the tasks that Hala ordered him to do.  And it had been hard work: he’d never been this exhausted in his entire life, and found himself repeatedly doubled over, panting and struggling for breath.  His scars burned.  Hala watched him silently, smiling softly.

        Guzma lifted the ends of his wifebeater and dabbed at his forehead, exposing his stomach as he did.  The white tank was a new addition to his wardrobe, as well as a pair (or two) of black basketball shorts.  It was an outfit he’d adopted after his first harsh training lesson with Hala.  The kahuna had warned him that he’d regret wearing his signature hoodie and baggy sweats, but Guzma was too cocky and said that he’d be fine, old man, let’s just do this training already.  That was what ya called me over t’ do, innit?!  And Hala answered him with a grin.

        But not even Hala’s training could keep Guzma from his hoodie.  Despite the back’s crossed-out Team Skull logo, the hoodie was by far his favorite, being both comfortable and fashionable, even in Alola’s scorching sun.  Now it hung over his shoulder until Guzma was ready to put it back on again.  And he meant to put it back on again—the branching, bloodred scars across most of his upper body were still a tender subject for him, and would be for some time.

        Guzma hated the way people stared at his scars and the way they judged him since… the incident.  He hated the way their eyes traveled up his arms and lingered on his neck, and the way their gaze pondered about what exactly happened in Ultra Space.  He knew they wondered how it changed him deep inside.  Their piercing gazes reminded him so much of the way his father looked at him.

        But now Guzma only felt comfortable exposing himself in Iki Town, and only around Hala.  He remembered when he’d first come to the kahuna after the old man had taken Guzma as his pupil once more.  Hala had frowned and asked him invasive questions, all of which he’d refused to answer.  But then Hala told him to remove his jacket, to show him the scars, and the old man had told him they were the consequences of his actions.  That he deserved this punishment.

        His scars were a reminder of his past wrongdoing and an oath to never follow that path again.  Hala had forced him to swear on his honor.  Guzma had wanted to laugh and say he never had any to begin with, but the look in the kahuna’s eyes was serious.  The old man really did believe in him, huh?  For now, anyway.  So Guzma made his pledge.

        Guzma dabbed at his forehead again, his thoughts evaporating with his sweat.  He had half a mind to head to the beach—the hidden one, the one only he knew—but the shadow of a person halted him.  Its owner belonged to a short man in a white labcoat with no shirt, his sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows.  His short goatee and green-rimmed sunglasses framed the face of the prestigious Professor Kukui.  Anger welled at the very sight of him.

        He didn’t know what brought Kukui here, but Guzma was quick on the offensive.  There was no way that the man didn’t know he was here, in Iki Town, a pupil under Hala’s tutelage.  Everyone on Melemele knew he was here.  Kukui sure as fuck wouldn’t be as ignorant as that.  Guzma frowned at the idea.  “So, ya ‘cided t’ show yer ugly mug after all,” he began, his voice thick with distaste.  He put his hands on his hips and slouched, his body moving into the familiar position with ease.  Hala might tell him to stand up straight, but old habits die hard.