T I T L E : Cruelty and the Beast
C H A P T E R: Chapter Twenty-Seven – A Hope In Hell
A U T H O R : MockTurtles
R A T I N G : Light T - Mugen's poor language.
S P O I L E R S : Yush. Takes place after the series has ended.
P A I R I N G S : None
S U M M A R Y : We're almost finished—and Mugen knows he isn't going to make it out of this alive.
D I S C L A I M E R : Don't own Samurai Champloo or any of its characters.
The two eye each other in silence. Mugen, slung over his katana is breathing so long and hard that his body trembles from the effort. His eyes, however, have regained some clarity; some focus as they take in the familiar angles and shapes of his old travelling companion. He is as he remembered from that fateful day at the tea house, to the evening they parted ways on the crossroads: utterly and wholeheartedly aggravating to look at. Thunder rumbles up above. The patter of rain becomes deafening. From the door, the coast of Satsuma is a tremulous ebb and flow of frothy waves, shimmering like weaved webs of silk as the rain splutters down from the heavens. The houses are alight with the glow of precipitation.
"Eyes on your opponents, Mugen," Jin says. The vagabond pays his respects, turning his head to scan the masses once more. He was drifting again—and Jin brought him back. He knew he should be thanking him, but the lingering threads of hatred for his rival (albeit, respected rival, one should add) looped in his stomach, gripping him with a strange discomfort and ease. It was as if his sheer presence tempted Mugen's long-forgotten promise to kill him; despite their reconciliation; despite the insignificant detail of there being fifty more soldiers who were itching to carve a name out of his hide this very moment. Still, Mugen felt the adrenaline shudder down the lengths of his arms, giving him resolve enough to straighten his back, his legs and face this surprising sightseer. A hand went protectively to his wound, touching the wet skin through the fabric as if to hold him in one piece. Jin's gaze followed, and he gave a silent blink of comprehension.
"You need some stitching up."
"Ha! Fuck you, four-eyes. You're late." Mugen's teeth gleamed in the near darkness with his ferocious smile. Jin took it upon himself to smirk at the demonic gesture.
"I thought you needed to handle this yourself? Wasn't that always your motto?"
"I'm in shit—two kinds of crazy with a side order of fucked up. Women are cuttin' me up from everywhere, Fuu's gone and gotten herself captured—yeah, I know, again, right?—and this ugly fuck over here, wants my guts for garters. You dig?"
"I suppose." Jin gave a world-weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers while he took a moment for himself to decrypt what Mugen was telling him. He didn't get much of a chance to before he heard a strangled grunt from the vagrant. Looking up, the bemused expression (think, five year old who has just caught their parents having sex) caught Jin off-guard.
"What?"
"You—you've not your glasses on?"
The soft whine from Jin could only be described as a sound of pure despair.
"You've only just noticed, Mugen?"
"I knew you didn't look quite as much of a fag for s'me reason."
"Scholarly," The ronin corrected, "The word is scholarly."
"Yeah, fag."
Jin could not be bothered to argue.
"Satsuma's humid, Mugen. The glasses were too foggy to be of any use, and judging by this—"he indicated with a nod to the baffled militia, "You could use all my eyesight."
"Ah, I was doin' fine, dickhead."
For the first time, Mugen remembered Jin's smile—because there it was, that proverbial turn of the upper lip, the coy peak of teeth from behind the pink of his mouth. With his ebony hair flowing in a tight pony over the side of his shoulder (longer now, three years longer, Mugen thinks) he wonders if that night (where Fuu begins to cry into Jin's chest, mumbles "but Mugen" into the night, only for him to hear it) she had been attracted to him. Standing here, he finds it hard to think otherwise, because he encompasses the elegance and beauty Mugen never had. Jin is still smiling when he returns to the present, his dark eyes fixed on his.
"How are the Crow Men, hmm?"
Mugen could only pout bitterly.
"Enough," Tanaka finally said. "That is fucking enough." He stared hard at the intruder, the lone vein in his forehead snaking closer and closer to the surface, pulsing with the anguish—not for the death of his assassin, of course, but for the chink in what was to be a perfect setup. In an instant, he rose to his feet, a giant, callous hand going for the enclosed sword propped up against the side of the chair. It made a terrifying sound as it was unsheathed, much like that of an executioner sliding the blade along a sharpening stone. It racked Mugen with insecurity; this doubt that would usually force him to train for weeks before he confronted this man for a battle. Yet, he was here—standing with a gash in his side, broken bones and the concentration span of a nat. His breathing became shallow in anticipation. He gripped the sword hard.
"I'll let you handle him?" Jin said idly, turning his back on the commander to approach the eager battalion of remaining fighters. He flicked the Kanata from its lock, letting the hilt rest on his thumb in preparation. In spite of the ocean of blood and limbs scattered around the warehouse, there were still so many of them—not enough to give a man of his calibre trouble, but enough to prevent him from helping Mugen. He gave a sideways glance over to the man in question. He was in agony—his body, collapsing under the simple ministrations of staying alive. Even if his eyes were focused, narrowed on Tanaka, Jin knew that this was a suicide mission—and recognised that Mugen was going in without any false semblance of hope. His brow gave a twitch; a tell tale sign of concern. To his surprise, Mugen was sharp enough to recognise this:
"Eyes on ye' opponents, Jin. You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine."
"I'll hold you to your word then," he replied after a pause.
"Eh?"
"That the only people we'll allow ourselves to get killed by are each other."
Mugen grinned and edged forward. Jin followed toot-suite towards the hoard.
"Damn straight."
Fuu leans on her knees, letting the pouring rain cascade onto her back, dripping down the thick tendrils of her hair. She lost her hair-chopsticks somewhere down the winding roads of Satsuma, but that all paled in inconsequentiality. From the hilltop she can see the warehouse she escaped from—but that was all. Under the flash of lightning, the stretch of road is desolate. She is still too far away.
"Must. Run," she pants, staring hard at the ground from her position, hands clenched around the knobs of her knees as she catches her breath. She straightening slowly, feeling nausea, fatigue and despair wedge in her chest. For once, there was someone she worried about more than herself; more than Jin—more than Mugen. She presses a hand to the letter tucked in the folds of her kimono.
"Nekomi..."
