a/n: Excuse me for taking so long to update, I am going through some problems so it is taking longer than I expected.
"What is your plan?" Momochi had asked her, once Tsukuyo had declared her intent to accept the assignment.
She had read the files on all three of the generals. They didn't seem to have many, if any, weaknesses.
Still, Tsukuyo had known this question and had prepared accordingly. "It would depend on who was the traitor."
A look of approval gleamed in Momochi's normally blank eyes. "If it were Takasugi Shinsuke?"
"I would quote poetry," Tsukuyo said.
At the beginning of the war, rumors had flown in the Kyoto red light district that a guest had visited to hear one of the most popular shamisen players. Once a horrified samurai had pointed out his identity, shouting his name for the public to hear, Takasugi had simply taken out his hidden tantou, slicing the neck of every member in the audience except for the musician. After the bloodbath, he had mysteriously vanished, leaving no evidence behind except for the bodies lying still in the pavilion.
The massacre in Shimabara had dominated the news for months. The musician had permanently retired not too soon after, apparently too traumatized to perform any longer.
"And if it were Katsura Kotarou?"
"A game of strategy. Shogi would be my first suggestion, in order to keep his attention."
Momochi nodded.
The assumption here was that they had something - hypothetically - to gain. If the point was to spread counterintelligence, than it wouldn't benefit them to kill Tsukuyo... at least not immediately.
The onus would be on her to cultivate their trust. If she remained discreet and effective, then the opposition would continue to use her as a liaison for both sides.
"What do you think about Sakata Gintoki?"
Tsukuyo paused, picking her words carefully. "Him, I'm not sure. He doesn't seem to have any weaknesses or inclinations."
"Everyone has a weakness. Even the most fortified castles will always have a weak link."
"If he does, then he's eliminated anyone who lived to tell the tale."
Momochi had gazed at her, somewhat concerned. "And you still want to continue?"
"I - yes, Shishou."
"Why?"
"If someone at the very top is willing to betray what they've worked for these past two years, then - " Tsukuyo's eyes furrowed. "There's a crack in leadership. A possible weakness that we could exploit in order to win."
"Yes."
The Amanto were not invincible, as it turned out. You could only rely on technology in short increments before you had to rely on those who would understand the terrain of land. A war still cost money, mercenaries, and strategy to win. And the samurai were ferociously determined to go into every battle with the spirit of hara-kiri, knowing that losing the war would be far, far more costly than the losses incurred with a victory.
That was where the Tenshoin Naraku came into play. Specializing in guerilla warfare, the opposition were at a loss to their motivations. No one had any idea as to why they had betrayed the Bakufu, but once they had chosen to do so, they operated in lockstep.
Money would not have lured any of the mysterious, skilled soldiers to fight on the Jouishishi's side against the invaders. Some had sworn that they weren't humans themselves - but for now, they remained the enemy, no matter what classification they belonged to.
Momochi leaned forwards and cupped her hand on Tsukuyo's face, catching her by surprise.
Ninjas were rarely sentimental.
"You have beauty," she said. It was not a statement meant to flatter, it was said as a fact. "Even monsters - as heinous as they can be - are still men. A man won't want to cut down a beautiful woman as much as another man."
And Tsukuyo had looked away, before catching a glimpse of Momochi's smile. "You shouldn't be ashamed of it."
"It doesn't make me stronger," she said. "It's - a distraction. And sometimes a liability."
She had learned the hard way that beauty was a double edged sword. As much as it brought happiness to one woman, it could also be the cause of another's downfall.
"Spoken like a woman who doesn't understand her true power," her master said. "But I digress. Your first objective is... survival. I won't let you die for this country on a whim."
"Yes, Shishou."
The head of the Rappa clan stood up and walked to the small, golden shrine that marked the mainstay of every shinobi home. With a matchstick, she struck the end of one against the box, the flame flickering in the darkness of the night, and lit up the incense next to the miniature statue of Marishiten, the goddess of warriors.
Enough of Momochi's disciples had died in the past that this was a normal ritual for her to perform before any of her students left on their missions.
Her hand was shaking.
"Shishou, are you all right?"
"Yes."
She straightened her back, and then said, "Take my best puppet. I... I won't need it. Not as much as you might, anyway."
-x-
As Tsukuyo lifted the rock from a crevice, she wondered what her master had meant to say. The giant golden statue moved three meters aside, revealing an secret entrance that would take her all the way outside of the village. She walked in, replaced the rock which moved the statue back to its original place, and began to travel in darkness the path that she had memorized
Every mission was dangerous. Otherwise there would be no need for shinobi - who by their very nature were commissioned to do the dirty work that the other members of society wouldn't do themselves.
They straddled the line between life and death more dangerously than samurai. For a samurai could walk in broad daylight, and remain well-respected, even if he had killed and maimed others in combat.
But for people like her, to even admit that she was a kunoichi rendered her job useless. To enter the nearest village meant she had to transform into someone else.
Sometimes she was a shrine maiden. The poorer villages tended to trust religious figures over other strangers flitting through their domain.
Other times, like now, she was a medicine peddler. Various herbs and dried supplements composed the top layer of her tea basket, and she was well versed in which concoctions happened to be excellent remedies for common ailments.
Yarrow root for fever. Mugwort for digestion. Kampo herbs for fertility.
Cavorting as a prostitute attracted too much attention, and would derail the time needed to travel all the way to Edo. She preferred other ways of disguising herself.
As she made her way across a river, balancing her tea basket on top of the water, a memory arose.
"Do you know how to swim?" Momochi had asked her on her second day in Shiranui. She was showing her various parts of the village, and one of the more awe-inspiring sights were the waterfalls.
"Yes," Tsukuyo had replied. She'd been fourteen and far too trusting at that age.
Momochi, without advance warning, had pushed her off the cliff and Tsukuyo had fallen into the water, cursing the clan leader for the murder attempt.
The water had been deep enough that when she popped her head from the surface, there were no other injuries sustained than the shock of being thrown into the river. Fueled by anger, she had managed to make her way out of the water without drowning, and had pulled herself onto the riverbank when she looked up to see two people peering down on her.
"See there, Gaimon?" Momochi had said, rather cheerfully. "I told you those girls from Yoshiwara knew how to swim - those sharks usually pick them up from the poor fishing villages. They're much more resilient than you'd think."
"If you really think your network is going to rival Mochizuki Chiyome's, forget about it," he said disdainfully, but Momochi had seemed rather pleased either way.
She had knelt down in front of Tsukuyo, who was still gasping for breath, flashing half a smile at her. "Lesson one: Never trust a ninja; always be on your guard. And two, welcome to shinobi country."
-x-
The camera flashed brightly in front of a samurai, who posed in traditional stances with the sword at the helm of their waist. A photographer pressed a button, causing the shutter to snap audibly as his assistant held a makeshift umbrella to control the lighting.
"And that'll be all for today, Inoue-san," the photographer said, giving him a slight bow, packing the silver plate into a box for further development. "I believe the photos will take a few days to develop, but if you could please write down your address here... "
The subject in question had smiled, and lifted his hand in order to scribble it down on a scrap of paper. "My family will be pleased - I don't think anybody in my village has ever gotten a daguerreotype made of themselves before..."
He was in the middle of writing when a shadow flitted across him, causing him to lift his head. Immediately, his hand stiffened and he stood up immediately at attention, saluting the man who had walked into the studio.
"General! Sir!"
"At ease, gentlemen," Sakamoto Tatsuma said, with the genteel ease of a man who was used to such displays. "I apologize for my disruption, but I have things I would like to discuss with Miyamoto-san in private..."
"Of course, sir," Inoue said eagerly, and bowed to him before exiting the recruitment tent without further ado. The photographer's assistant followed him shortly afterwards, closing the tent flaps behind them.
Miyamoto offered him a seat, taking his only once Sakamoto had settled into his.
"Terrible times we're going into, Miyamoto," the general murmured softly.
"Yes," Miyamoto agreed. At the sound of a kettle boiling in another room, he stood up again. "Tea?"
Sakamoto nodded. He seemed quite weary.
The photographer brought out a small kettle and then set the brazier in the middle of the ground. Two ceramic cups were then pulled out, and tea was served. Sakamoto wrapped his hands around his drink, but waited for it to cool before taking a sip.
Very few people could have predicted the ascension of Sakamoto Tatsuma as quickly as he did. A son of a low-ranked samurai from Tosa, he had shown no academic sensibilities from the very beginning. Despite this, he had possessed a natural proclivity with the sword, earning the respect of his men. In addition, he possessed a remarkable intuition for raising the morale of soldiers. The military had taken notice of his swordsmanship at first, but it was his negotiation between the Satsuma and Choshu provinces that had landed him the position of managing at first his own platoon, before later rising to the commander-general of the Jouishishi.
That he carried around a pistol in the time where most wouldn't dare to speak of such things went mostly ignored. His eccentricities had been validated when he had surmised the inherent weaknesses of the military and had made improvements in all departments - notably, the weapon department. The Shogun had trusted his leadership during the war and he was widely considered to be one of the most valuable generals heading the Jouishshi.
"How was the campaign in Nagasaki?" the photographer inquired. There was a casual pause in the conversation.
"A failure by all accounts," Sakamoto said flatly. "I've sent reinforcements, but I doubt we'll get past anything but a stalemate and potentionally more losses."
As a principle, Sakamoto did not believe in abandoning anybody.
"I'm sorry to hear about that."
The merest hint of a wry smile crossed his face. "I did what I could."
Miyamoto nodded sympathetically. "I suppose you'll want me to go there in a few days after they surrender."
"Yes, actually. How did you guess, ahahaha?"
"Intuition, probably."
The propaganda war had already begun with the advent of the camera's invention. Not every civilian lived near the Altana leylines; barely any of them were educated about the enemies who had chosen to wreak havoc on the country.
Photographs were crucial to sway public opinion. Though it wasn't easy to take many of them with primitive lens, Miyamoto could produce daguerreotypes for other artists to render into posters; they would then be carried by mail couriers to tack up on walls in the faraway villages. Sakamoto had kept an eye on the process, keenly aware that if he didn't control the narrative, the actual war would be lost and the fate of the country would be in these stranger's hands who had no respect for the people.
"Give it a week before you leave," Sakamoto said somberly. "I'll send reinforcements to your office when there really is no hope. How is work these days?"
"Well, those soldiers have taken to the camera more than I expected," Miyamoto commented.
"They're excited to die." Several lines appeared on Sakamoto's forehead, and though he was still by all accounts a young man, there were flecks of gray in his hair. His eyes, which had been a famously clear blue, had grown cloudy as the death tolls grew increasingly steeper and steeper.
"I don't see it that way," his companion said. "They're proud to serve their country. To defend it against the Amanto who seem intent on destroying us all."
"Yes, yes," Sakamoto replied impatiently. "Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians. But at what cost?"
He was already speaking like a madman, Miyamoto realized. It was habitual for most people who were knee-deep into the war to speak disparagingly of the newcomers who signed up for it, not knowing the horrors that lay ahead of them. But it wouldn't help matters now, to descend into a philosophical circle that had no end or beginning.
He decided to change the subject. "You know, I saw Oryou-san when we were stationed in Edo a few weeks ago. The houses commissioned me to take photographs of the courtesans, for their calendars... "
A sly sparkle crept into Sakamoto's eyes. "Did you now? And you didn't think to tell me until now because... ?"
"It slipped my mind," he said. "But if you want to see her plate - "
"You know I would, ahahahaha!" There it was, that famous, booming laugh. Miyamoto smiled, and thought that as long the general kept on smiling, any war could have been won.
-x-
It took Tsukuyo about a week of walking village to village in a roundabout way to finally reach the outskirts of Edo. Used to traveling alone, she had fended off the usual suspicions. Beautiful young women were rarely seen alone, but she had bound her chest and lowered her voice so that she could pass off as a slim boy - someone looking for work in the city. For the most part people were simply too self-involved to take notice of the roaming medicine peddler; the doctrine of the Tokugawa era mandated that every daimyo was to stay in Edo for the better half of the year.
In order to serve these lords, it was exceedingly common for people of lower rank to seek better employment in the capital city, no matter their status in society. Merchants, samurai, and craftsmen alike were similar in that regard; with a bit of luck and hard work, it was far more likely for the ambitious to succeed economically in the bustling metropolitan than to stay in their home villages.
Even shinobi, of all the occupations in the world, had fared much better luck in Edo. The Hattori clan had made the nation's capital their homebase for almost two generations, right after they had rescued the Shogun after a hostage situation. It was an open secret in Shiranui that the leader had multiple doubles, and while very few people would be able to tell in the castle, it was common to employ shinobi for such purposes.
She reached the gates and upon slipping in without much fuss, studied her map. The Yoshiwara district would be located near the Asakasa district, not too far away from the SensÅ-ji temple.
Admittedly the throngs of people and the clamor of so many things at once - with so many street peddlers, stall hawkers, beggers, and the oxen of carriages being driven around the city - it was surprisingly overwhelming. The slight, cloying odor of artificial perfume and sweat mixed together in the air made it hard for her to breathe.
Tsukuyo had forgotten what it was like to be around so many living, breathing people.
She'd been used to this, once. Had taken a childish delight in living in a place with so much to marvel at. The Yoshiwaran accent that she had once adopted was a code of conformity, a sign that she had a place to belong.
The ninja village had been disdainful of anything required beyond self-sufficiency. Fiercely independent, they had not needed luxuries to exist, preferring to live a life of frugality. Tsukuyo had been struck at how different things were when she had first entered Momochi's secret house, shocked of how humble it was in decoration in comparison to the splendors of Yoshiwara.
She put those thoughts aside as she made her way to the red light district. The timing was deliberate - by the time she had arrived by the front gates, the sun was beginning to set, and the proprieters of the teahouses were beginning to light up the paper lanterns.
It had been six years.
That entrance that had been familiar and unfamiliar to her eyes... The swirling whirlpool of emotions had struck her without warning.
What would she see here?
Would she be ready to ignore everything that she had once taken comfort in?
She swallowed, and pushed her feelings away. It would do no good for her to lose her composure this soon.
And anyways, the guards were looking at her. "State your name and business," they said.
Tsukuyo took off her straw hat.
"My name is Yomi. I'm here to speak with the commander of the Hyakka, Tobita Danzou - about a job."
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- tbc
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