The Ronin, the Criminal and the Waitress
Mugen was raw. What he felt. What he said. How he fought. Raw, in your face. No questions asked. Not before or after.
Unmatched. Almost.
There were very few people who could hold their own against him, and even fewer who could defeat him.
He looked at the trophy from the old man. Still didn't know what it meant. Just kill, kill, kill all who oppose him. The strongest of them.
He didn't know why he had kept it.
Had he killed Jin, what would he have taken?
Jin didn't have any trophies. Nothing with special meaning. He had his swords and his glasses. That was it. Nothing to take but the man himself.
What they were together he had never known. They'd travelled together, fought and nearly died together. And at the end of all of it, he'd lost the will to kill Jin. Did that make them friends?
He still didn't understand why he'd come along for this ride in the first place.
Fate in the form of Fuu had brought them together. Somehow they'd listened to her. Facing off, hands drawing swords, they'd stopped and obeyed the little waitress. The easy answer was that she'd saved their lives. That answer worked for Jin anyway, with his honor and all.
It didn't explain why a criminal who didn't believe in debts or honor, had just consented to following her.
All he knew was that something had clicked, then and there. With Fuu, and Jin there. It had felt right. And Mugen always acted on his feelings. Completely.
He really didn't know any measure. Everything he did, he did full throttle.
He wondered where Fuu was now.
He knew how she felt about him. He'd heard her that night, cutting off Jin's offer to stay with her. She hadn't let him finish, she hadn't heard.
Seemed a shame to waste the love of a man like that, especially for the likes of Mugen, who'd only hurt her. Stupid girl.
She was happy now, he hoped. As happy as she could be, alone and orphaned. At least she'd seen her father one last time. The samurai who smelled of sunflowers.
So easily they'd split up on that crossroads, each going in a different direction and not looking back.
Let's meet up again someday.
The rain kept him conscious.
He saw his own blood seeping into the deep brown earth of the beaten path. The uneven ground dug into his back.
His opponents were dead, all of them, strewn around him. Bakufu dogs.
His vision was hazy. Bad, really bad. Bad luck, to walk into a dango shop while a whole bunch of 'em were on their lunch break.
Guess they weren't going to meet up again after all. Not in this life anyway.
A squirrel crossed the road, jumping on his hip and into the trees. The crickets were chirping. Night was falling.
He lay sprawled on the road like a broken scarecrow.
But his sword was still in his hand and his arm he could still move.
His blurred vision focused on a swaying light. Seemed like a firefly.
Sound of hooves. Cart, coming his way.
He pointed his sword in the general direction of the horse. Getting kinda hard to hold it up...
'Oi...'
The cart was occupied by a man. His face was hidden by a large sedge hat.
Next to him a lantern dangled from a bent bamboo stick. Something under the hat gleamed in its light. Glasses.
If he had seen Mugen, he certainly wasn't hurrying up to help him.
'Oi...'
Mugen was going to skewer the horse if it was going to be stupid enough to obey its master and trample him.
The hooves stopped right in front of him. Sandals stepped on the ground.
Sword hilts jutting out of his belt. Mugen looked up and saw a dark face under the hat.
The man knelt down and pressed a cloth against the worst wound, between his ribs. Mugens fingers snaked around a pale wrist and felt a bracelet. Skin, cool like summer rain.
He knew the sound of the man's educated voice before a word was spoken and grinned stupidly.
'Mataku. You really are the worst kind of man.'