Disclaimer and A/N: None of the Rurouni Kenshin characters belong to me. Tokio as she appears in this fic, however, does. I know that she was a real person, but this is not Tokio as she was, it's Tokio as I imagined her before I knew she was real. So I suppose it's AU.
In any case, I promise not to make Saito gooey. He's probably one of my favorite characters--I have a thing for well-executed antiheroes--and as such I'll do my best to stay true to him. If you've any ideas/suggestions for keeping him in character, or if you think I'm taking him out of it, please let me know. Also, I'm using Japanese suffixes and name ordering (last name first). Oh! Last thing. This is based on the manga.
That's wordy. Sorry.
T+ for some sexual references and blooood.
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She was eighteen when her master died. Eighteen, and her master was by no means the first man she'd seen killed. She'd come the way she always did, to service him after his evening cigar. Instead, she found a swordsman grinding the expensive import out into the bloody sitting room carpet. Her dear master had lost his head completely.
Tokio stopped in the doorway and stared at the man she was sure would kill her. "You made a mess," she said.
His sword dripped onto the back of her master's favorite dress jacket. She was thankful she wouldn't be made to clean that stain, at least. The feral look the assassin gave her sent goose bumps spiraling chilly down her back, but she didn't move.
"I would say you helped me, but now his family will kill me. They'll say I did this, or that I should have stopped it."
Tokio was a pretty young woman. Her black hair was tied back in a loose bun; her long neck and pale skin were emphasized by the black, lily-patterned kimono she wore. Her eyes were brown, at the moment unreadable. She fell automatically into her faux self, the stiff cover that was gradually taking her over. Tokio made herself go numb and stared straight into the yellowish-green eyes of a man in police uniform. Loose black hair dangled into his face.
"If I die here, at least, they won't think I did it."
"So willing to die?" His voice sounded almost as predatory as his eyes looked.
"It will keep others out of trouble when this comes apart. Why not?"
He flicked the excess blood from his sword and pulled a cloth from his jacket to wipe it clean. "What is your name, little woman?"
"Tsuka. Tsuka Tokio. What's your name, police man?"
"Huh." He stepped away from the body and came toward her. He hadn't yet sheathed his sword. She stepped forward, struggling against her stiff leg. The strike would be easier if she was away from the door.
"It is in your best interest not to know."
When he struck, it was like a snake. A snap of light along the length of his sword before the hilt struck the side of her head. Tokio's face hit the maroon carpet and a blossom of blood trailed across her forehead to the floor.
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Sound and a confusion of movement and light stirred Tokio. Her cheek stung from a slap—she twitched as another one opened her eyes. Her master's wife stood over her, bug-eyed and furious.
"You…! How could you let this happen? How did it happen? Who did it? Tell me now, you useless whore!" She raised her hand to slap Tokio again and a white-gloved hand gripped her wrist.
"I believe I will take over the questioning, madam." The voice was familiar, but it had an edge of obsequiousness that didn't sound natural. Tokio turned and looked straight into a pair of narrow, yellow-green eyes. The assassin was still in a police uniform, one without blood stains. His smile was as narrow as his eyes. The insincere edge dropped out of his voice. "And your name would be…?"
"Tsuka Tokio." She stared straight at him, trying to make herself cold against the shock. He would accuse her, kill her—no wonder he hadn't killed her last night. This was more convenient for him. He had a scapegoat, now.
"Tsuka-san." He held out a hand. She hesitated before letting him help her to her feet. As soon as the room stopped spinning, she stepped away. She glanced at her master's body and back at the wolf-man. It was more gruesome than it looked in the dim light from last night.
"Tsuka-san, what can you tell me about this incident? Did you see the intruder?"
"I saw very little." She leveled a cool look at him that she hoped said, smug, aren't you? "I asked his name, but he knocked me out."
"His face…?"
"I couldn't tell much about him. But from what I saw…" She paused and flicked a bit of hair away from her face. "…he was very ugly."
He raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. The side of his mouth twitched upwards briefly before he turned to her master's wife. He bowed, and the sly edge was back in his voice, sliding along his words like blood along a sword.
"I think we should take custody of Tsuka-san until we can fully investigate this situation, madam. The assassin may return to eliminate her as a witness to his actions."
"But…" The squat woman hesitated, glaring at Tokio past the police man. Tokio noticed for the first time that, unlike the others, he carried a katana at his waist. "We… she is… needed…"
There was murder in the woman's eyes. Tokio felt a twitch of fear and shoved it aside. Death by a swordsman's blade or the indignity of a beating…
"I'm afraid I must insist." The policeman smiled at her master's wife and the woman gritted her teeth.
"Fine. Take the whore. But she belongs here, when this is all finished, understand…"
She glared at the policeman until he took the hint.
"Ah. I am Fujita Goro. We will bring Tsuka-san back when we feel it is safe for her, and when we no longer need her input."
He looked over his shoulder at Tokio. Her hands clenched against the cloth of her kimono.
"If you will follow me, Tsuka-san."
She followed.
He said nothing to her for most of the carriage ride to the police station. She watched him every second, waiting for some hint, some cue as to his motives. Finally he turned away from the window.
"Ugly, hmm?"
Tokio blinked.
He pulled a pack of imported cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one out against his palm.
"I find it interesting that you had the perfect opportunity to accuse me and you didn't take it."
"I find it interesting that a murderer would go investigate his own crime. Aren't you afraid of giving yourself away?"
He lit the cigarette and took a long, slow pull. Tokio made a face at the acrid mist that curled out of his mouth.
"I have no fear of that. You didn't answer my question, little limping woman."
She twitched, a flicker of something familiar and long-buried quivering just under her control. She couldn't tell, she didn't know what… Tokio shook her head to clear it. "You are very rude, commenting on something like that."
"You're good at masking it, but if you have to walk any sort of distance… It must have been quite an accident, to leave you with such a pronounced handicap."
Only a flash before it died. Rage. That's what it was. "You so lightly assume it was an accident."
Fujito Goro sighed out another stream of smoke. "My question?"
"I don't know." She looked straight at him and wondered why she hadn't said anything. Why? Why? Something else was there, something else… She tried to think of how she felt, watching her master's clothes slicked heavy by the blood leaking from his own body. Tried to remember what she'd thought, what she'd felt, when she realized she would never have to spread her legs for him again.
"I don't know," she said.
"Ah. I see. What was that you said last night… Your death would keep others out of trouble, was it?" He tilted his head.
Tokio watched the trail of smoke drifting from the cigarette between his fingers. She felt the crust of blood against her scalp and wished for a bath. The rythm of the carriage jolted against her. She listened to the swing and jingle of the carriage and the reins and shuddering of sound-feeling that was the horses hooves against Kyoto's streets. He flicked ash from the cigarette and onto the seat cushion.
"Why you care about such details is beyond me," she said.
"Call me a curious man." He took another pull on the cigarette and the carriage slowed and finally lurched to a stop. As soon as someone outside opened the door, Tokio stood and stepped down. She stumbled a little, but Fujita didn't move to help her. She straightened and walked toward the front of the three-story, western-style building that was the police headquarters.
She made the first few steps, but then, just as he said, her leg caught her up. She half-dragged it past the gate, gritting her teeth behind tightly closed lips. Fujita walked beside her, keeping an easy pace. He faced straight ahead, smoking, smoking, smoking away, until they reached the front door. He bowed her inside.
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