A/N – Just floating an idea out, to see if it's plausible and if I should continue. This is an AU experiment in alternate history, and you should be able to recognize all the important dates and turning points. I'm not setting myself up as a rival to Harry Harrison, but I thought it would be interesting to try.

Disclaimer – Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Watsuki-san and all the others who got in before I could. Worst luck. I am merely putting my own twist on it.

Prologue
History Lesson:

Ten years ago civil war tore the newly formed nation of Japan apart. The aftermath of the Second World War had led to a shift in popular perception against colonialism and the accumulation of empires, and so Britain, France and a number of other states had – with varying degrees of willingness – released their hold on their colonies, allowing them to finally regain control of their own destinies. In 1948, some eighty years after it had fallen, wracked and torn by weak leadership and internal conflict, into Western hands, Japan achieved independent nationhood – but only after a long, bloody struggle.

They had been devastated by the war, the raging conflict between Germany, Italy and the rest of the world that had spread even to the Far East. And then immediately afterwards, the fight for self-determination began – revolutionaries waging a guerilla campaign against the already exhausted colonial government. The problem was, of course, that there were many different factions from rival provinces joined in an uneasy coalition under one man, who took the surname of the legendary general as his nom de guerre. He became the first prime minister of Japan, claiming ultimate secular power for himself, and then set about eliminating the rest of his opponents and most of his erstwhile allies with terrifying ruthlessness.

But as the years passed, conditions in Japan worsened – the economy failed and the yen was all but worthless, famine and poverty were rampant, and Tokugawa's spies and soldiers were everywhere, crushing anything they saw as a threat – to the point where, in 1953, rebellion rose again, spearheaded by the province of Choshu. For fifteen more years, Japan was torn apart by violence and terror and the AK-47, as both sides grew more and more fanatical –

But the Choshu had a secret weapon, one guaranteed to strike fear and awe into the hearts of men. Assassins and hitokiri were employed in great numbers by either side, to eliminate key figures, to spread chaos and terror and to shatter morale, but in 1963 the hitokiri made his first appearance, his first kill a statement devastating, unmistakable, and terrifying.

Tenchuu.

In the twentieth century, guns were the chosen weapons of the revolutionary. Arms purchased with foreign aid, a steady stream of assistance from either the United States or the Soviet Union, designed to further their own game played out on a much larger board than this small, localized conflict. But in this age of semi-automatics, the unknown assassin carried his own, unique calling card –

He used a sword. Archaic, obsolete, and completely outdated, the psychological impact had nonetheless been devastating. He had terrorized his opponents and inspired in the rebels a kind of mythic awe – Battousai, they whispered, was not a mortal man but a demon, a bloody ghost, an avenging samurai spirit of legend come to dispense justice once more…

In late1967, at Toba Fushimi, the rebels finally gained the upper hand against the Tokugawa regime. It was only a matter of time, after that, before they pushed the revolution through to its conclusion and were recognized as the true government of Japan – Battousai's mysterious disappearance was interpreted as a sign that his task was finally done, leaving men to take control of their own affairs. If any knew or thought differently, then at least they kept their silence – the myth gave their men hope, and sapped the will and hearts of the enemy.

And so the truth of hitokiri Battousai's tale, if any had ever known it, was forever swallowed by legend; the only remaining evidence of him a bloodied katana thrust into the earth of Toba Fushimi, marking the end of the chaotic, bloody Bakumatsu and the beginning of the hope of Meiji.

1978

He had always worked in the shadows. He had never operated in the light, out in the open where he could be seen and recognized; his distinctive features had made it too risky – even after he had become a bodyguard and a vanguard skirmisher – for him to take such a chance. Once seen and photographed, his face would be on file forever, and so would end the usefulness of the Ishin Shishi's best assassin, whether or not he had actively been working as such at the moment.

As a result, there were almost none who would ever recognise his face – he had left no witnesses, only a few enemies had survived meeting him, and only a select group of his superiors had ever seen him. There were no records, no photographs, no information on him anywhere – but he was recognized at the airport. He could feel it in the atmosphere, in the sidelong glances that skittered over him nervously, in the tension that was unwarranted when dealing with a small, delicate looking man who did a very convincing job of feigning charming eccentricity and haplessness. And that could mean only one thing – his own people were searching for him.

Only they knew what he looked like, and more importantly what he was.

Katsura-san had promised that he would be allowed to go his own way after the end, had sworn it on his own honour that he held second only to his dedication to sonno-joi. But Katsura-san was dead, now…

He was not a fool, and nor was he naïve – as some people seemed to believe went hand in hand with idealism. He knew what had befallen Shishio Makoto, once the man's usefulness had ended, and he had shown no signs of fitting into the new era. He knew how nervous he made certain people feel, either because of his skill with his weapons or because of the secrets he had created and then kept for them.

And that – just as much as his quest for atonement – was one of the reasons he had taken off so precipitously, to avoid giving the now-cautious members of the new government such a choice. They need not worry about him, and he was insulted that they would even think it so, but some men did not think of honour first, but of cold hard cash, and with a cynicism and ruthlessness that made his assassin's pragmatic mind seem naïve.

However, there was very little that could be done about the distinctiveness of his blazing red hair at the moment. His every instinct quivering, ready for anything, he walked with all the nonchalance he could muster past the armed security guards towards the door leading out into Tokyo. He could feel them watching him, feel the wariness in their ki, but they made no move, and as long as they held off, so too would he.

The days when the killing instinct had been so ingrained in him that it was his first choice were long gone – he had managed, through long days of wandering and the hypnotic meditation that came of walking, and walking, and walking, to suppress it, to train himself to react not with deadly skill but with puzzlement, with harmlessness and eccentricity. He could sleep without clutching his sword now, although he could not bear to have it out of his reach, or even out of sight. And he could walk past a line of potentially hostile armed men, and turn his back on them. But it went against every single instinct he had ever had…

And then came the voice, the voice that he had not heard for more than a decade, but which still had the power to scrape his nerves raw and bring every single killing instinct to the fore.

"Battousai," it said, with infinite certainty.

Kenshin stopped, in mid-stride, his hand quivering with the need to go to his weapon. But he controlled it – if he drew in here, it would all be over. That was what they wanted. He turned around, his best confused, uncomprehending expression pasted innocently onto his face, as if that could deny the evidence of the cruciform scar.

"Oro?"

The policeman – yes, a federal policeman – he had once known as Saitou Hajime did not look in the least amused, and nor, unfortunately, did he look any less certain of his identification. But then, Saitou had always had the wonderful gift of certainty, of righteousness. He wondered how Saitou had justified channeling that righteousness into serving the government that had deposed his former masters.

"Himura Battousai," the former captain of the Shinsengumi, the old Shogunate counter-terrorist squad confirmed. "It has been a long time since you have showed your face in Japan."

And behind Saitou, walking swiftly towards them but stopping at a suitably safe distance, were Yamagata Aritomo and Okubo Toshimichi, neither of whom was likely to be misled by the rurouni smile and mannerisms. So he dropped them. Resumed his normal reserve, and watched the guards' shocked faces – as if they had been told who he had once been, but had never truly believed it – and the satisfaction on Saitou's.

"Aa," he said flatly. "I had good reason." He looked towards Okubo as he said it, wondering if he could detect a flicker of self-consciousness – the man had always been a little wary of him – but, as always, a politician's mask had always been more deadly than an assassin's.

Had it not been for Katsura-san's guarantee, would he truly have been eliminated like Shishio?

"Then why did you come back?"

He said nothing – he was not going to explain himself to Saitou here in the middle of a crowded airport.

"Himura-san," Yamagata said, taking over from the blunt policeman, "we never had the chance to acknowledge all that you did for the Meiji government. Your loyal services deserve recognition; now that you have returned to Japan, we would like to offer you a post in the military…"

Kenshin searched his face, but could find nothing but sincerity. There was little left, now, of the intense revolutionary Yamagata had once been; he had cut his hair and grown a moustache, and was wearing a Western style military uniform, but the eyes were the same – the eyes of a man who had brought down an old, weak government and built something new from the ashes. But tearing down old governments was always easier than preserving new ones; Yamagata – and Okubo, for that matter – looked tired, and much older than ten years warranted. Cares weighed heavily on their shoulders, for he had no doubt that there had been challenges to the fledgling Meiji regime.

But he was no longer concerned with such matters.

"Yamagata-san," he said quietly, inclining his head, "I must respectfully decline. I did not look for advancement, and nor do I deserve it; I was nothing but an assassin."

"You were – and are – more than an assassin, Himura-san," Yamagata demurred quietly, almost regretfully. "You were a symbol. A weapon to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies, a symbol of the bloody birth of the new era…"

"As you say," Kenshin said, coldly now, his courtesy strained, "I was a symbol of the Bakumatsu. But the Bakumatsu is over, now, and the new era safely established – you do not need blood-soaked reminders of the past tainting the present. I am a wanderer now, nothing more, nothing less."

"A wanderer," Saitou scoffed. "And yet you still cannot bring yourself to go unarmed, and all the instincts are just as sharp as ever." It was true enough – even now, he had made sure his back was not exposed to the door, and that from where he stood he had a clear view and a clear escape route mapped out – but he ignored Saitou's taunting.

Once more, he inclined his head. "Yamagata-san, Okubo-san; I must apologise, but I cannot help you in this matter. I neither want nor deserve such honours."

They did not look pleased, but in this public place they could not dispute his decision. Faces impassive, they took their leave and strode out of the terminal, leaving Saitou and Kenshin behind.

"You should have accepted the post," the former Shinsengumi said, lighting up a cigarette.

"Oro?" The threat to his composure gone, he resumed his cheerful, innocent mask.

Saitou eyed him in dire disapproval, slowly exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "Ten years ago, you timed your departure well. But now that you've returned – the government cannot afford to let the bloodiest killer and the most powerful symbol of the revolution out of its control. This was their first offer. There will be others, and offers will slowly become demands and then ultimatums…"

He knew it. But… "Why did you accept their offer then, Saitou?" he asked sweetly. "You, with your rigid principles – your Aku Soku Zan; surely you did not buy safety in such a fashion?"

Saitou's narrowed golden eyes were ironic as he eyed the man who had once been his deadliest opponent. "Ah, but then I had no powerful patron to protect me. And I find I have become very pragmatic in this new era of prosperity and riches…"

"How did you know where I would be?" Kenshin asked abruptly, voicing the one question that truly unsettled him.

Saitou laughed harshly. "How do you think?" he demanded, tossing the butt down on the carpet and grinding it out, making Kenshin wince. "You don't think they'd ever let you of all people disappear without a trace…"

TBC...