Author's Note- This story was published 8/25/12 in light of the Rurouni Kenshin live action film's theatrical release. Yay!

I do not own anything Rurouni Kenshin related and in no way wish to infringe on the copyright.

1865, Kyoto (First year of Keio)-

The assignment was simple: guard the Ishin Shishi spies. Be sure they were not discovered. Somehow nothing is ever quite that easy, though. War was never that easy, and it seemed the world knew nothing else. Whether here in Japan, or in the Western countries disputing slavery, war was inevitable.

Two lavender eyes flew open beneath the moonless sky. Their owner took in a deep breath, steadying himself. He was quite used to late nights guarding his fellow rebels. The agitation he felt did not come from that, nor from the blood he was likely to spill again. No, it came from the fools ahead of him. The two spies, walking casually about the streets in convincing peasant guise were whispering continuously...about him.

Himura was used to rumors. He'd been the victim of them since joining the Choshu faction. What irked him was how they went on about it in the middle of a job...and in front of him, no less! He sighed, ignoring the desire to leave them, and moved soundlessly to a different patch of shadows for a closer view. His eyes wavered over the scene, scanning for any sign of...

There! Movement! His feet flew from his hiding place as he spotted an armored hand behind his wards. The attacker was too large for his normal attack. He had to be over seven feet without the Sengoku armor. The hitokiri bolted right at the giant, slamming his small frame into the other man. His sandals skidded on the street as his opponent hit the ground.

The armor clad stranger leaped to his feet, two wakizashis drawn. Himura crouched, hand on his hilt. Seemingly, the man had no training, Himura mused. For, he stood straight with the swords angled away. Yet, the masked man appeared, as far as the hitokiri could tell, at ease. It was clearly a ruse. He was better trained than he was letting on. The redhead's eyes narrowed. He couldn't read his soon-to-be-victim's movements with that hideous mask on.

The giant laughed. "The Shinsengumi send out wolves, but all the Ishin Shishi have to offer are scrawny women."

Himura fought back an eye twitch. "You are neither Shinsengumi, nor a Bakufu samurai," he bit, ignoring the man's jest.

The mask tilted down, revealing a set of midnight eyes as he charged, wakizashis spinning. Himura drew his sword, blocking one blade and ducked to avoid the other. His sword whipped about, slamming into the man's double blades. The Goliath slashed pointlessly, and Himura skirted away. Another blow took him by surprise and he narrowly escaped it by slipping between the idiot's legs. The redhead's breath caught as his hakamas caught on something and he pivoted to find one of the short blades pinning him to the dirt below them.

The other silver blade came down with a heavy thud and Himura rolled aside. The band holding his long hair severed, as did the small man's pant leg as he tore away from the imbecile's grasp. He glanced over where the spies had been. They'd run off. At least he didn't have to worry about them getting caught between blows.

The big man covered his field of vision and blocked the obvious escape routes. Himura knelt, fingering the wrapped hilt in his hand. His hand slid along the glistening blade and his eyes locked with his victim's. "I'm done playing with you," he crooned. "Now, accept your death."

He could almost swear he saw the man's eyes crinkle from a smile, but then it was gone. "Likewise," the monster growled.

Himura lunged, the silver striking at the man's neck. Both men toppled to the ground, the mask falling askew and the red-toned locks flying. Himura rose to stand atop his victim's chest. A stream of blood pooled around them. He could hear people coming closer. He'd have to disappear. Still, he stared down at the beast of a man, pondering why a ronin would attack him. It wasn't like he was famous or anything. He was forgettable. Just another bloodstained face in the war. So who would hire a wandering samurai to dispatch him?

The red-haired young man hopped down and walked away. Footsteps approached and the hitokiri broke into a run. His hand went to his belt where he'd hidden a rag to wipe the blood from his katana. His hands fingered at air. He cringed, secretly reprimanding himself for dropping the cloth. He slipped underneath a porch as a group of samurai ran passed. His gaze followed them as they turned a corner and headed toward the fallen warrior.

The hitokiri peered down at the blood soaked metal and gently licked it clean, smearing red across his lips. He'd clean it properly when he'd finished the mission. His eyes watered and he held back a gag before stepping out onto the street once more, sheathing the katana. His feet pulled him forward, thrusting him once more into the shadows. All he had to do now was catch up with the scouts and make sure they returned safely.

He cast one more glance behind him, making sure he hadn't been seen, and then dashed back into the shadows from whence he'd come.

Someone made an interesting point in one of Concussion's reviews. Why didn't Kenshin just wipe the blood on his clothes? Why lick it? After all, he was usually covered in blood. Note, though, Kenshin wasn't splattered by blood when he murdered the ronin. If he had been, then it wouldn't be a big deal. However, since he wasn't blood covered, he had an advantage to sneak away. Someone blood covered would attract attention if spotted. So, he needed to clean his sword quickly. Without cloth the easiest ways to get it off would be: A-water, or B-saliva. He had no water, so... yeah, I know that's gross. My apologies. -Okami Nobuye