Notes: Whew, so happy I finally had some time to add to this collection again. My life is so crazy right now, but I really want to do all 26 episodes. Here's TRACK 10. NEVER CATCH ME, by Flying Lotus and Kendrick Lamar, for episode 10, "Lethal Lunacy." Another one focusing on my dear sweet Mugen, with a bit more Fuugen as well. Also, many thanks to Ryukyuan-Sunflower on tumblr for the informative post about kiribi!
Lost in Japan, A Remix | A pirate and a ronin walk into a young girl's teahouse… sounds like the start of a bad joke. [Collection of in-series drabbles, one for each episode; includes in-between moments, exchanging looks, midnight conversations, unreliable narrators, episode fix-its, some Fuugen of course, and plenty of self-indulgent little scraps]
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TRACK 10. NEVER CATCH ME
I can see the darkness in me and it's quite amazing
Life and death ain't no mystery and I wanna taste it
Step inside of my mind and you'll find
Curiosity, animosity, high philosophy like the prophesied meditation
This is how Mugen feels most alive: bent over and heaving, every breath jagged as knives, eyes stinging with sweat and blood. His muscles feel tensed and aching, but his sword is tight and agile in his hand. There's a man before him; Mugen doesn't know his name, his age, hell even his reasons for fighting — but it doesn't matter, that stuff never has. What matters is the glint in his eye, the mastery of his form, the power that emits from his person. He grins like a wolf snapping his teeth in a war dance, and Mugen can see that he's here to kill him.
And there's a moment, somewhere just before their swords clash, when Mugen's not sure if he can ready his weapon in time, if he can match this other man's strength; could this be it, could this be the moment his body is surrendered to the flames, set adrift? He peers over the ledge and smiles.
I'm still here.
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It's always been this way. Mugen has very few things: the numberless sands on the shore and the moonlight on the sea; the way a woman holds him in the cradle of her thighs; and the fight. Of the three, the fight is the most straightforward and therefore his favorite. There are very few things to think about, but numerous things to feel — the rush of wind on his face as his opponent surges forward, the ground firm or slippery beneath his geta, the crunch of bones breaking in his face, his fingers. He could leap into a fight over a spilt cup of tea, over a saucy look. What you got in that wallet, there? Something for me? He feels cheeky, hungry for the dance.
After, when the bodies still and the buildings burn, he slinks away, half his normal size, his blood cooling. He wipes himself down in the river and peers over his shoulder: no one is coming after him, to slay him, to arrest him, to put him down for good.
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The story repeats itself, repeats itself. Until one day in a teahouse, first a girl with the promise of one hundred dumplings, then a man with the personality of a river trout finally — nearly — kills him for good. Somehow they wind up together, all three of them, a pirate, a disgraced samurai, and a teahouse waitress. No one has ever stayed with Mugen for more than a few days at a time, man or woman. And instead of stealing his wallet and sword and running off into the distance, the brat insists , "You're going to help me find the sunflower samurai," and Fish Face stays too.
The brat is young and silly, but she's got nerves of steel for someone so soft. She never hesitates to grab him by the collar and shake good sense into him, heedless of the sword on his back, the scars in his face. He calls her "Brat," and "Bitch," and instead of tearing up or fleeing this bastard with no sense of decency, she just stares him down, face twisting and twisting. Her brows get so tight and livid he wants to laugh. Getting under her skin becomes fun. What better way to see himself reflected, than in her red, puffed up cheeks or her scrunched up nose? Gotcha , he wags a finger, like he's pulled one over her. She slaps him, she hollers at him, she fights over food. But Fuu never leaves, and neither does Jin.
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In a nowhere town between Edo and Nagasaki, they wind up staying in a monastery. For a few days, life slows down enough for him to doze in corners with a full belly. The old monk bonks him on the head, reminds him to polish the Buddha, chop the fire wood, repair the roof tiles. Mugen endlessly bitches. Fuu throws her hands over his shameful mouth and hisses, "shut up ," with that same furious little twist on her brow. It's quiet except for her occasional slaps and the monk's chimes. He feels like he's sinking underwater, the hours layering over him slowly and holding him still. He starts noticing small things, like how she tucks her hair behind her ear nervously, or how Fish Face adjusts his glasses when he's about to say something cutting. Early in the morning, Mugen sees Jin slip away and follows him to the waterfall, where the samurai sits under the water and meditates for forty five minutes before breakfast. He sees that Fuu talks to herself when she thinks she's alone, calling the air Mama and gesturing. It pinches a place in his lower left ribs, so Mugen slips away for a drink.
And this is the trouble that starts: that night he meets a swordsman who can command the wind to tear your insides, and Mugen returns to the monastery holding his bleeding hand. She notices. Fuu reaches out with her small slim hands, the same hands that gestured at the air, and takes his wrist, this time her brows not furrowing in rage but in concern, and this, this is the trouble — Mugen can't stand her face like this, its gentleness, how she touches him softly like he's someone to be touched softly. Mugen is many things, but he is not soft, and he doesn't need to be handled with care. He rips his hand away from her grip.
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The trouble never stops: Mugen actually trains . Training is not his style, it's not how he learned to fight on the island, and he doesn't like discipline. But he runs up the temple steps, carrying heavy loads, hits stationary targets with weapons, even contemplates meditating under the water like Fish Face. The excitement of his upcoming duel under the moon ratchets higher and higher as the days pass; he thinks of the slap of the other man's sword, the moment that his palms opened and bled. He racks his brains, trying to think through the problem, another method Mugen's never tried with his fights — usually they just happen , they're not planned and formalized and prepared for. He crouches in the trees, watching the movements of squirrels, bees, the stillness of the leaves. He grabs fish from the river and tosses them back. On the advice of the monk, he practices his breathing.
Mugen can feel her eyes, and Jin's, on him the entire time. They stand far enough away not to interfere, but from the corner of his eye he can see them: Jin's long dark shadow and the pink blob with her hands clenched in worry. He wants to shout in her face, he wants to shove her face in the dirt, he wants to say something vicious and mean so that she'll yell back. He doesn't do any of those things.
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The night of the duel comes, the moon full and bright like even she has something to say.
Mugen brushes past Fuu and Jin, "Well, I'm heading out for a bit." He doesn't meet their eyes.
Fuu breathes, not looking at him either. "You haven't forgotten, right?" Her voice is small, but clear.
He stops, and that's the trouble.
"You're going to help me find the sunflower samurai, right?" It's not a question.
With one eye glaring at her over his shoulder, Mugen grits his teeth. "Yeah, I know."
"Hey, don't forget." Now Fish Face. Seated inside by the candlelight, a book open on his lap. "I will be the one to kill you."
Before Mugen can make a retort, Fuu reaches out and casts sparks with a kiribi at his back. Her expression is solemn, watching him with stillwater eyes.
He grumbles, "What are you, my wife?"
But she doesn't rise to the bait. She looks taller, somehow dignified, with the duel moonlight on her. Her cheekbones glow. Her forehead is smooth as white silk. He huffs. Mugen prefers her upset, puffy, red, snotty-nosed and vengeful. He wonders if that'll be the last thing he sees before he dies. He grins to himself as he saunters away. Not a bad way to go.
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I'm still here.
Mugen jumps over the ledge, eyes wide open; a powerful wind takes him, knocks him back against the cliff.
Suddenly, the swordsman calls out to him. "Why do you fight me?" he asks, frowning. "Is it because of the bounty on my head?"
There's blood in Mugen's mouth, probably a few cracked ribs from falling into the river. His clothes are soaked through and it chills his muscles. Still, his breathing is hot and fast, his chest pulling in more and more, like it's winding up for a pitch. He drags himself to his feet, wipes the blood off his lip with the back of his hand. How much blood does a human body have? He must've bled out a hundred times over in his lifetime already, but he's still standing. Across the way, the stranger is not in much better shape, but he's poised to come at him again.
There's a tingle in his fingertips, raw excitement coming off him in waves. Is this it? Is this it? Are these the last few moments before I die? The anticipation is intoxicating; he waits and watches for the moment his opponent strikes, the half-step before he bets and loses everything.
"I'm having the time of my life—!" he shouts, a wide, toothy grin on his lips.
They charge each other, and the man's strike is so powerful it forces more blood from his gut. Mugen staggers, his vision goes foggy. He collapses on the riverbed, body so heavy.
"This time, you're mine," the stranger promises darkly, rearing up again. Then he attacks, with enough power to finally lay Mugen down.
The moment feels slow: the fall from the cliff is far, and below, Mugen sees nothing but darkness, hears nothing but the wind roaring in his ears. Is that what dying is? A long, dark fall? He looks down at his hands, just recently healed from the previous encounter; without his sword they look so empty. He touches his wrist where Fuu had held him very gently with that unfamiliar look in her eyes. You haven't forgotten, right? Yeah, he definitely prefers when she's angry and spitting curses at him.
He pulls the secret short sword from his back; the strange swordsman is nearly upon him. I'm still here, Mugen thinks again, before he strikes.