Author's Notes: Seems like it's been a while since I wrote something—nothing since March, actually! I decided to leave Little White Lies as a one-shot, since it was a total spur of the moment kinda thing. *smacks herself* Bad Asphyxia! I get horrible writer's block, so don't get too pissed if I don't finish stuff. I've been considering a rewrite of The Taste of Blood…but don't hold your breath waiting. I'm not as big of a fan of Gundam Wing as I once was, so I may not do anything to it. Oh, well. Whatever.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rurouni Kenshin or Dead or Alive. I mean, I wish I did (Sano and Kenshin would be screwing each other like rabbits if I did—same goes for Hayate and Hayabusa), but I don't. Dammit!
Dance of Swords: Demon's Game
By Asphyxia
~*~*~*~*~*~
In the ages of ancient Japan—long before the Meiji era, before the rise and subsequent fall of Hitokiri Battousai—it was said that demons lived in the woods of the country. They were called tengu. Tricksters and shape shifters, with a violent streak a mile wide, the tengu were renowned for their deception of both the commoners and the nobles. No human had ever seen a tengu and been the same afterwards. Several never returned, and the bodies of others occasionally appeared at their homes, carried by a flock of huge ravens. As time passed, the reality of the tengu faded away, and they were forgotten by all. They remained simply as a myth, and no one suspected that tengu had ever existed. But they had, and they watched as humans forgot them; watched as they forgot what the tengu had been to them. And so, after the fall of the Hitokiri and the beginning of the Meiji era, two girls—sisters, with a tengu father and human mother—trained by the tengu themselves, set out to remind humanity of who the tengu were.
They chose to show this message by defeating the man who had been the pride of the former era—the assassin Battousai. They would destroy all of them—Shinomori Aoshi, Saitou Hajime, Sagara Sanosuke—all men who had, at some time, fought Battousai and lived to tell the tale. The two half-demons resolved to kill all of them; some for their arrogance and pride, others for their idiotic defense of what was just. They would die, every last one of them, at the hands of the half-demon girls.
The era of the tengu would rise once again.
~*~*~*~
Himura Kenshin froze in the middle of the busy Tokyo street, the twin buckets of tofu he carried sloshing in answer to his violent and sudden stop. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a sense of foreboding slithering up his spine like some demented worm. Gaze darting rapidly from side to side, Kenshin's lips pressed into a thin line as a chill enveloped his whole body. He hadn't felt this way since he had retired the title of Hitokiri Battousai—but now his senses were on edge, as sharp as they'd been when he hunted the streets and forests of Japan, bringing swift death to many. He looked up at the brilliant sun above him and sucked in a deep breath, his internal alarms jangling. The slender rurouni shivered unconsciously, then set off once more, struggling to ignore the stirrings of anxiety in his stomach.
~*~*~*~
Sunlight splintered on the short blade of a kodachi, the tip millimeters away from the neck of a practice dummy. The blade's owner slowly moved the gleaming steel and sheathed it in its wooden scabbard. Shinomori Aoshi flicked dark bangs out of his cold green eyes with a slender finger, goose bumps springing up on his milky-white skin. His face remained impassive, but his mind was running at an intense speed, trying to make sense of the sudden apprehension that had seized him as the blade of his kodachi rushed toward the cloth-and-leather neck of the dummy. A frown crossed the beautiful, icy features, and Aoshi lowered himself into a crouch, his pulse racing. He didn't know what it was that had startled him—him, Shinomori Aoshi, former leader of the Oniwabanshu, he who was virtually unshakable—but he knew he despised the feeling of being caught off-guard. Rising from the crouch, Aoshi allowed his face to return to its former impassiveness. Whatever it had been, it wasn't going to surprise him.
~*~*~*~
The ashes of a violently stubbed-out cigarette glowed faintly in the ceramic ashtray, tiny wisps of smoke floating from the butt. A gloved hand clenched itself into a fist on the lacquered wooden table as its owner grimaced inwardly. Saitou Hajime gritted his teeth angrily, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising as if he was in danger. His eyes became slits of burning gold as he fought the impulse to slice the table into splinters. The policeman rose from his seat, tossing a few coins onto the hard surface and securing his hat on his head. He nodded apathetically at the waitress who smiled and waved when she noticed his abrupt exit. Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the crowds, surveying them with a cold gaze. It was unheard of that Saitou Hajime would ever be found unawares, but here he was, angry and nervous. Nervousness was not a feeling that Saitou was acquainted with, and now that he was he was pissed. He growled lightly and set off at a brisk pace, intent on shaking the horribly weak feelings from himself.
~*~*~*~
Small clouds of dirt floated up from the dry, hot street as a pair of feet leisurely carried their owner towards the Kamiya dojo. The simple black shoes that the shoes wore were dusty and filthy, thanks to the road itself. Suddenly, the clouds of dirt dissipated, the feet still and tense. Sagara Sanosuke paused suddenly in the narrow back street, his brow furrowed in confusion. He took his hands out of his pockets and spat out the small fishbone he'd been chewing on, turning to face the way he'd come. There was no one behind him, but he couldn't escape the horrible, eerie sense that he was being watched. The brawler looked forward once more, and yet again was faced with an empty street. He uneasily slipped his hands into his pockets and continued, an acute discomfort with his surroundings settling over him. Trying not to let it bother him, Sanosuke couldn't help but glance over his shoulder every few seconds—as though he expected something or someone to emerge.
~*~*~*~
Moving at unknown speeds through the boughs of trees, a lissome shape darted towards a small bar located on the corner of two intersecting streets. The figure dropped lightly into an alleyway behind the bar and a pair of burning amber eyes surveyed the tiny dirt path, looking for intruders. She—for it was a woman—moved swiftly out of the alley and blended into the loud, boisterous crowd. Briskly, she glanced behind herself once before heading into the inn. She searched the patrons in the bar and wrinkled a delicate nose at the foul smell of sake, sweat, and drunkenness. Her eyes fell on a lone figure seated in the darkest corner of the bar, aqua eyes gleaming brilliantly in the silhouette. The first woman; a girl really, with an innocent, sweet face, made her way towards the figure. She slid onto the floor, perching herself lightly on the cushion placed there. Her sister leaned forward, illuminating a similar face to that of the first girl. A smile crossed the face of the aqua-eyed one, and a cruel grin was her answer. Neither girl spoke as they rose to their feet and left through the back door, hidden from view by a lack of lamps. As they emerged into the little alleyway that the first had come to, they found themselves face-to-face with the waitress who had served the second. The waitress frowned.
"Hey!" she snapped. "You didn't pay for your—!"
Her voice was cut off, replaced by a liquid gurgle. She looked down with horrified eyes at the hilt of the kodachi in her throat, then tried to shriek as the first girl yanked the blade out. The scream never got past her lips, the second girl taking the opportunity to slide her own blade between the waitress' ribs. Cold steel sliced through her heart, and the now-dead waitress sank to the ground, blood pooling around her.
Her killers sprang into the trees and took off, leaving behind the dead woman and the screams of her partner.