Warning(s): AU, Shoyo-comes-back-to-life fic, impossible happenings, violence, language, gen
Alternate Summary: n/a
Author's Note: I am still in a Gintama phase. This will be a shorter fic, nothing really big (as in, not as many chapters as my other two fics). I'm also not even taking anything seriously and just throwing OCs around left and right like they're going out of style. (Okay, no, not really, because Naya, the Captain and his motley crew who have yet to be introduced, and Kai are like the only OCs, but whatever.)
Also, I'm getting everything wrong and I don't even care. Everything about Shoyo's past in this fic is my headcanon. (hahahahaha)
ALSO ALSO, I'm not spending less than thirty minutes editing any of the chapters. SORRY SCHOOL AND LACK OF GINTAMA EPS EQUALS NO PATIENCE. SORRY NOT SORRY.
On another note, school is busy. Life is busy. Busy bees. Favorites, follows, and reviews are welcomed and forever appreciated! (:
Disclaimer: I do not own Gintama.
The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is the sky; a slate so brilliantly blue that it never ceases to awe its beholder. There are no clouds today, only the reflection of an endless ocean stretching past all horizons.
It is not an unwelcome sight, but is certainly peculiar - in that it gives him a sense of cleanness, an uplifting feeling that allows for the impression of purity.
His cheek tingles as blades of grass brush against the skin. It takes several moments for him to reach up, fingers grazing his jawline to remind himself of his presence within his own body, and pluck several green strands from the clutches of grass behind his neck. The emerald is startling against the blue.
For a brief moment, in which he could have shuttered his eyes and missed it entirely, the sun hits the grass blades and they shimmer in reflected white.
The silver sword of the red eyes and blankness in the leftover of no family to belong and fight for what you traitor to the -
With a small gasp, the man sits up. Immediately, his head begins to spin, and the grass slips through his fingers - fluttering to the ground. He palms the bridge of his nose, nausea rising up from within him even as he struggles to suppress the urge to heave and vomit.
Around him, emeralds flow in the shapes of the breezes. They end in the far distance, where a cluster of trees gather around his vision, and a plume of smoke wavers in the air - signaling the presence of civilization.
He leans back on his elbows and breathes deep, overwhelmed by his surroundings. This is certainly not where he had fallen asleep. His last recollection was -
Sorry it's too much I didn't think the bodies are all dressed in put this on it's customary to die in the what are your last regrets -
The pounding in his head proves to be too great for him to quell, and he rolls over onto his knees and hands, blinking strands of long hair from his eyes. It takes several seconds to look at his hair again and notice the jagged edges; cut by a sharp edge, it seems, and with little caution. When had he cut his hair, and in such a fashion that-?
Promise me that I will return so keep hating them forever but all hope is lost have you left anyone behind because oh how I wish -
There was no way we could have the war isn't enough for so let me say these words in advance -
Listen to me are you evil aren't we all listen -
Listen -
I promise I will return -
The man's chest feels heavy, as if it may burst, and he attempts to hurl only to find that his stomach is already empty. His palms feel wet and yet there is no dew clinging to the grass, and the suns still shines -
They came in the night a sword should be swung to the way of the samurai pay attention -
Silver hair long hair short hair -
He cannot breathe.
The Amanto, the samurai, the Bakufu, the children. His precious children.
A rough hand seizes his shoulder and squeezes. "Breathe," someone says, and the man - no, the samurai - tears his thoughts away from the labyrinth of confusion. Only then does he realize how fresh the air is, and how close he has come to suffocating himself by the lack of it.
As he kneels in the grass his eyes never stray from his hands, clenched as they are in the fisted holes of dirt. Still, it does not escape his notice that the other man's voice holds a wary note, and the movements he makes to kneel beside him are not quite as eager as one ought to be.
A lock of hair that is not his own falls into the corner of his eye. It is purple.
Takasugi Shinsuke -
It is not, the samurai thinks savagely, and begins to quiet. The earthquake rocking through his mind and body calms itself somewhat.
"Better."
The word is identifiable as a question, but the phrasing is flat as the quarry rocks and makes it sound like more of a statement. "Thank you," he replies, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
"You respond well to commands," the stranger says. He seems cynical. "Can I take my hand back now, or do you need another few minutes to have your little panic attack." Again, the downward infliction returns. It seems to be a speech pattern of his.
"It's alright. I'm fine now."
The hand on his haori releases, and he straightens up on his knees to look at the other man for the first time, who raises an eyebrow in askance.
The stranger dons a simple travelling outfit, dusted and worn, and carries a small pouch strapped to his back. His waist is lined with various pouches and flasks, along with the sheaths of two short swords with plain hilts and grips. His eyes are shadowed, veiled beneath his kasa. Long purple hair is tied back loosely, messily.
As one who believes in the value of first impressions, especially when it applies to potential enemies, the samurai misses none of this. He stands, ignoring the way his legs shake and refusing the acknowledge the spots darting in front of his eyes.
"You look like shit," the stranger says.
For some reason, the statement strikes the samurai as vastly humorous. He concludes it is because of his dazed, delirious state, and chooses not to reply.
"What are you doing here."
"I..." He stares out over the plain. "I'm not quite sure myself."
"What the hell does that mean. You an amnesiac or something."
The samurai tries to smile, feels the corners of his mouth twitch into more of a grimace, and gives up. "Would you mind telling me where I am?" he asks, bypassing the other's question.
The man eyes him carefully. "Outskirts of Nagasaki, on the other side of the ports. Kyushu Island."
He grimaces and runs a hand through his hair. There is something naggingly important about this new piece of information, but he hasn't the patience for indulging in lower priorities at the moment. Instead, it is noted and filed away for another use at another time. "Do you know how I came here?"
The stranger's eyes are sharp. "Don't know. I followed the light."
"The...light? Did you die, too?"
"What?"
"I...nevermind. What light do you speak of?"
"The big pillar of it that came down right where you're standing. I followed it." The traveller scowls, distrust written plain across his face. "Is that some sort of new Amanto transportation?"
This time, the samurai's smile is a little more genuine than before, and perhaps easier to summon through the lingering traces of nausea. "I...I don't know what that could have been, myself. I apologize for asking so many questions. Is..." He takes a small step forward. "Is there anything I could reveal that may help to build some sense of camaraderie between us?"
The man turns back to stare at him. "'Camaraderie'. Are you serious. We've just met."
The samurai chuckles softly; he imagines Shinsuke speaking the same words and finds it fitting of both characters. "True. But I am in desperate need of information..." Why is he here of all places? Why does he feel so ill? Why is he even alive? What happened? What is even - "And I would greatly appreciate it if you could help answer some more of my inquiries, if you can. You would prefer to trust me first, yes?"
Sighing, the man says, "What makes you think I'd be willing to help you at all."
The samurai frowns, struck by the chance that he could be stranded here in the middle of nowhere with not a soul around to help him along his (wayward) path, should the only other human being in sight prove to be unwilling to cooperate.
"I don't even care about your light show," The man continues. "The only reason I bothered to follow it is because I thought it was a - " He cuts himself off. "...Look, if you want answers, just go to Nagasaki. Ask around. Maybe they'll fix up your head."
A hint of desperation creeps in, then. "Are you sure you cannot help me? What day is it? Did you see where the light came down from? The sky, or the space?" He will beg if that is what it takes to procure these answers. "What is your name, firstly?"
"Yeah, now you're even talking shit," the man says, resting a hand on the hilt of his left sword; a clear warning. "Maybe the light did something to your sanity. Go see a doctor and have fun. Nagasaki's north of here." In one brisk movement he turns and begins to stalk away through the grass, violet hair billowing out behind him.
"Please, wait!" he bursts out. "What of the prisoners of the Kansei Purge? What happened to Edo? And the Joui War? Why-"
-am I not in a prison cell or buried in two pieces beneath a gravestone, he almost asks, but bites off the end of the sentence. He doubts the young man would be able to answer him, after all.
To his surprise, the man freezes in his tracks.
Silence stirrs the breezes across the field. Stray grass whisks through the air and circles around the two figures, still as statues. He dares not breathe in the midst of his anticipation.
"Who's asking."
The samurai breathes out, too relieved to feel indignant about the other man's unrequited hostility. "I apologize, I should have thought to introduce myself earli - "
"No, I'm sorry, I should make myself more clear." Suddenly, he finds himself on the recieving end of a piercing glare. "Tell me who you are, right now, and there'd better be a damn good explanation behind your name or else you'll pay for asking those questions."
Heaviness settles over the atmosphere with dark, meaningful intent.
The samurai is startled, though he does well not to show it. "My name is Yoshida Shoyo," he says as lightly as possible. "And why might I pay for asking such questions?"
The man jerks back, eyes widened in a display of emotion that greatly differs from apathy and hostility. His jaw even drops an inch.
Shoyo cannot, for the life of him, understand the reason for it at all.
"No!"
A loud crash resounds through the control room, just as a plume of smoke rises from the buildings afar. The little girl grits her teeth and stretches her hands, twisting a gruesome expression onto her face. Her eyes dart rapidly over the keyboards, and then to the windows on the other side of the room.
Everything is a wreck and it's all their fault.
"Come on, come on, come on - "
Her finger jams against the button. It's stuck. She curses violently, spewing forth all of the 'crude' swear words Jin taught her, and pounds the damn thing with her fist to no avail. Of course the programming won't allow for a shortcut to the interface, because nothing is ever that easy, is it?
Behind her, the door bursts open upon impact and flies several meters away from the flame. She swings around, wide-eyed and breathless, hair swinging sunshine in her wake.
"Naya!" the boy exclaims as their gazes lock onto each other. His are bright, polished, full of relief, and simmering with (dangerous) emotions. Hers, she knows, are fearful.
"Are you fucking crazy?" the child screams at him. "I told you I could handle this! If you could just give me some time, then-"
"It's over."
Naya drops her hands from where they hovered over the keys. The world slows. "What?"
"You heard me." For the first time since her promotion, the boy looks grim. His eyes are shuttered, mouth pressed into a firm line that dares not breathe a word of cowardice. Briefly, in her suspension of disbelief, she wonders if this is what her comrades meant when they told her he was the best of them all. "We're leaving."
"I can't! We haven't fixed this yet! I need more time!" Naya gapes at the resigned, tight-lipped look on the other's face. "You can't be serious! Captain!"
The Captain simply shakes his head, takes two steps forward, and grabs her by the arm. She doesn't glance twice at the blood coating his fingers.
"The illusions haven't been recovered yet! They could have fully manifested by now, Captain. We can't just - we can't just let them be, you were the one who talked about the consequences - "
"We sent a meteorite of fake souls out onto a planet where people don't come back to life," he replies, dragging her out of the room. "We don't even know if the atmosphere could have scattered them separately or not. Earth is surrounded by the Harusame - we couldn't even get close if we wanted to. Our base is also under attack." His grip tightens. "Either way, if you stay here, you're done for. Do you understand?"
Naya stares at the ground blurring past their feet and her skin begins to shake. It's strange, because she is quite sure that she promised to be brave, a lifetime ago, and that her soul is still holding strong. "Are we really in that much danger?"
The Captain looks down at her, and it strikes her that he is barely five years older than she is - and yet his face is full of creased lines and deep, meaningful things.
They're too young for this shit.
"Sorry, Naya," the Captain says.
She knows he wants to make a promise, but he can't; and so she pushes her soles against the floor and runs faster.
"That's bullshit."
"It's true," Shoyo insists. He spreads his hands and faces them toward the man, both to gesticulate and to enforce the image of open sincerity. "I am he. I swear it on my life."
"You're life doesn't mean a single fuck to me," the stranger snarls. A glint of metal appears between the hilt in his hand and the sheath of the sword. "Yoshida Shoyo is dead. He was taken away during the Kansei Purge and executed, and if you thought I wouldn't know about who you're trying to impersonate, you're dead wrong." A dark storm rages in his eyes.
"I truly am Yoshida Shoyo!" He steps forward, oblivious to the flinch that wracks the other man's body at the movement. "Would you please listen to my story? If you would be so kind as to listen, first, I would gladly explain-"
"I'm not going to listen to a bastard like you!" the man roars, and in that instant, Shoyo fancies he sees a dragon. It is gone in the blink of an eye, but stirs a faint memory within him.
The samurai immediately backpedals as the stranger unsheathes his two swords, exhibiting great prowess as he spins the hilts around his wrists and fingers. His eyes widen in horror; he has pressed too far after all. Then again, he would not have gotten anywhere if he refrained from doing so - but at least he would not find himself at the other end of someone's killing intent.
He is weaponless; the most of anything he has on him are the clothes on his own back. There is no chance of escaping on foot in the condition he is currently in. If no action is taken, he will truly die here, and his body will find an undesired resting place upon the grass.
Shoyo is suddenly compelled to laugh. To be killed after death for claiming the name of a dead man? What irony.
If he could somehow convince this man to hear his own experiences - but there is no time, and as the twin blades stop their dizzying display, he knows he has barely five - no, three seconds to do anything, say anything. If he can just find proof of his identity, then...
The man leans forward, shifting into his stance, and Shoyo's words burst from his tongue like a swarm of bees, frantic and erratic in their escape.
"I am Yoshida Shoyo! I taught a school named Shoka Sonjuku, and I had a brother named Umetaro - he died in the first year of the Amanto War, and...and I had twenty-five students, although they were always more like sons. To me, that is, I mean, although I was never too sure about them, but I did take in Gintoki - and Shoka Sonjuku was in Kyoto, near the farmlands, and it was surrounded by - by many trees, and many of them had scratch marks because they practiced with their wooden swords outside of the compound, and..."
The dam in Shoyo's throat has been broken, and now the torrent of water has arrived, flooding the streets of a nonexistent city. He is distantly aware that he has not yet been pierced by the edges of a blade, although that still remains to be seen.
"They burnt down the school, I remember, but the Naraku made sure not to harm the children. I helped them evacuate, and then I was given a choice, and - " He chokes on his own words. When was the last time he has felt so disorganized? Before his execution? Or after? Was there ever an after? "They took me to Edo, into one of their prisons, and we all thought they wouldn't dare execute us - we thought they had hearts and morals, even the smallest belief that life can be precious - but then my dear friends were taken away, and I knew I was next, but...we..."
The difference between remembering the past (which doesn't feel quite like a past, and more of a near-present to him) and retelling it to another is more difficult than he thought it would be.
"It...It could have been expected, because the Amanto were aware that the samurai of Earth were overpowering their own soldiers." He was a fool. He, along with many others, knew that everyone captured under the orders of the Kansei Purge were killed, but he hadn't expected their executions to be set on such a high priority to the enemy. "That was the sixth year of the Joui War, I believe. I'd been keeping tabs, even though my students never knew it. Most of them are twelve, some of them thirteen. He - Gintoki - he never remembered his birthday, so we held it on the day I brought him to the school, which was - "
"I remember it," the man says. Shoyo jumps a little, snapping back to the present.
His swords are no longer unsheathed, and the dark frown that marred his brow has softened into something melancholic. For some reason, it is more ugly than his anger. "I remember the day," he elaborates. "When you brought him. Him and his sword."
"You..." Shoyo stares numbly. A horrific realization threatens to dawn upon him. "...What?"
The man closes his eyes as though it pains him to look upon the world. "Say something more," he says in a low voice. "About your school, and your kids."
"My students?" The samurai does not bother to hide his own puzzlement, yet he obliges. "They're wonderful. I raised Gintoki for several years, now, although I do love all of them dearly. I suppose his parents named him after his silver hair, and I also suspect that they were victims of the war with the Amanto, although he has said nothing so far to give purchase to this claim. And the others..."
He has twenty-five children, doesn't he?
"Katsura Kotaro is the boy who came most frequently to my lectures. He never even stays at home when he is sick, so I often have to send him home and apologize to his parents. He...always looks so disappointed when it happens." Shoyo lets out a helpless chuckle. "And the other boy who likes to bother Gintoki. Shinsuke. He has hair the same shade as yours, I think, and he is best with a sword. His eyesight is brilliant."
The way the other man looks at him, wide-eyed and seemingly captivated, makes Shoyo feel like he is telling an age-old legend to a boy of eight or nine.
"Yoshi was the most naturally gifted at his studies," he continues. "Until Daisuke surpassed him, that is. I had to go to Daisuke's house and yell at him until he promised not to skip out on too many lectures. I still regret losing my temper, a bit, but it has payed off. Yukiro is the fourth best in sparring matches, though Kotaro always insists that they are tied. They are close friends, those two. And the most eccentric of them all is Shigure, because his jokes always interrupt everyone's study sessions, and it takes a while for them to refocus on my assignments and such. Sho has the brightest smile - he can even cheer up Shinsuke without getting impaled and needing my care over some wound or another. And Kai, as well as Tsuba, are brothers, and I do think they can very well read each other's emotions. Kai, especially, likes it when my lectures end up extending through the night because of our discussions, and so when we take refuge beneath the kotatsu, he - "
"Enough," the man says. His eyes are squeezed shut, knuckles white. "Just...enough."
The former tutor gazes loosely at the stranger, feeling hopelessly and utterly lost. "Who are you?" he asks softly.
It takes several moments before the stranger can respond; but when he does, Shoyo is thunderstruck.
"Sorry, sensei," he says, a bittersweet smile pasted across his face. "You didn't teach us the way of the sword just to die on the wrong end of one, did you."
What?
Again, he asks, "Who are you?" Perhaps he has misheard him.
"Yuura Kai," the man says, then. The look on his face expresses so much more than any language. "Tsuba's brother. Son of Yuura Yukiko and Yuura Hirashi. Former student of Shoka Sonjuku's Yoshida Shoyo and patriot of the Joui War."
Kai's shoulders sag. "Sorry, sensei," he says.
At last, Shoyo registers the words that have been spoken, and his very gasp is the sound of complete and utter dissolution.
"We failed you."