Before you read this, you should really read Tears and Rain and I'll do My Crying in the Rain. It is an alternate timeline, but you'll miss out on a lot of the significance of this story if you have no concept of how Kuri and Soujiro's relationship works normally ^^;;

always raining: a l t e r n a t i v e s - o n e

a single twist of fate

by Gabi (gabi@pinkfluffy.net)

I don't mind the sun sometimes, the images it shows.

I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes.

Cinnamon and sugary and softly spoken lies.

You never know just how you look through other people's eyes.

The building was completely dark save for a little hushed moonlight that filtered in through slits in the window coverings. That was quite all right with the young man. He had already studied the layout of the building, and his other senses were sharp enough to compensate for the lack of light.

The lock on the front door had been simple to break, and then he'd simply strode into the front room of the inn as if he were an invited guest and not a hunter with a quarry to bag.

His task tonight was simple, so simple he almost wondered why he'd been sent. There were other assassins who could have taken the job just as easily. There were only a few guards to dispatch. It was nothing that a novice couldn't handle.

But then, the man he was after was a very important police commissioner in the prefecture. The job had been scheduled to the tiniest detail, down to when the bandits would arrive and unwittingly wipe out the evidence of assassination even as they looted the bodies. It was perhaps, he reflected, a good idea that they'd sent him. Any mistakes would just make the whole situation messy. It was always better to stick to the stealth and the shadows and send a professional.

The guards had been child's play, they'd been half dozing against one side of the stable. He'd let his sword play be intentionally sloppy, so that no suspicion would arise if anyone examined the bodies too closely. They'd just look as if they'd been killed by overzealous bandits.

As sloppy as he had allowed himself to be, he had not wasted any time. He had a schedule to keep, after all. He'd slain them all on the first pass, flicking the blood from his katana even as he slid to a stop in the mud of the stable yard. His tabi and sandals were filthy, caked with slimy stockyard mud, but it didn't bother him. Few things bothered him.

The commissioner's room was the first at the top of the stairs. He was simple, clean: beheading. Once again, overzealous bandits had caught him in bed and made short work of him. Just to make things look a little more realistic he mussed the covers of his bed and faked signs of a struggle.

The other rooms on the hall were supposed to be empty. He checked them just to be sure. It was good to be thorough. The rooms were empty, as reported, so that meant there was only one more to take care of in the place. The innkeeper slept downstairs, in a room behind the kitchen. He was making excellent time. He would perhaps be back at their temporary base in time for breakfast.

The innkeeper was sleeping on his stomach, so the first strike was a neat clip to the base of his head with the hilt of his katana. If the innkeeper had been standing, the blow would have dropped him like a sack of potatoes. As it was it merely made him slump still in his bed. After he was sure that the man was quite unconscious, he rolled the bulky man onto his back and then deftly slit his throat without another thought.

There. He was completely finished and there was plenty of time to be away from the inn before the bandits showed up. He folded his arms into his sleeves and was about to leisurely stroll off when he noticed the small doorway underneath the stairs. This stopped him. The small doorway was not on the building plan he'd been given.

His hand drifted out of his sleeve and to the hilt of his katana, and then he reflected. It was probably just a storage closet and that's why reconnaissance had failed to mark it. It was easy to miss, recessed as it was under the stairs. Yes, with a door that small, it had to be a storage closet. He was about to turn and leave the small recessed door under the stairs when he noticed that it was a fraction of an inch open. That settled it. It was best to be thorough.

One hand on the hilt of his katana, he gently eased the door open and crept inside the small cubby behind it. As his eyes adjusted to the further darkness, he crouched and sat back on his heels. This was not what he had expected.

There was a rumpled pile of straw in the corner but that wasn't what drew his attention. Lost in a fitful sleep on top of the straw and tangled in some rags that might have been clothing or some sort of blanket, was a sixteen-year-old girl. She was thin and looked as if she'd been beaten recently. She had to be a servant at the inn. It was the only explanation. She hadn't been on the list of occupants at all. He was going to have to have a talk with the reconnaissance team. Well, there was no damage done, this time, he thought as he drew his katana again. He could easily take care of her.

The katana glimmered dully in the half-light and he studied her for a few moments. Absently, he resheathed it after a time. It felt wrong. He'd do it with his hands instead. It was just a quick twist, then her neck was snapped and his problem was solved. It seemed to him something the bandits would do: kill the only woman with their hands.

He crept across the space between them quietly, so as not to wake her, then ever so gently laid his hands on her neck. She awoke with a start, jerking backwards, but not out of his grip. He firmly covered her mouth before she could scream and his hand on her neck tightened until he was sure that it was no longer comfortable.

She was shaking. She was shaking under his hands like a rabbit, frozen, unable to move. She wasn't even making any noise. He was fascinated. He let his hand drop away from covering her mouth, and she still didn't scream, didn't struggle against the hand on her neck. She just trembled.

"Aren't you afraid?" he asked curiously, his gentle voice like warm cream milk.

She didn't speak, didn't move, didn't make any response at all. He brought his free hand up and lightly stroked her cheek with his fingertips.

Suddenly she slumped under his hand, loose and boneless like a rag doll. He let his hand loosen around his neck and sat back on his heels again and just looked at her. Her skin was soft. She'd never be missed, and even if she was, everyone would assume the bandits had taken her. He was fairly certain that they did that on a regular basis.

He wasn't exactly sure why he wanted her, but he did. Maybe it was because she hadn't screamed. She hadn't even struggled. His ever-present smile twitched in the darkness but there was no one around to appreciate it.

He bound her hand and foot with rags from the straw bed. The temporary camp wasn't that far away, not at the speed he traveled. He could probably get her there before she regained consciousness. Still, it was better to be thorough. He gagged and blindfolded her too, although he tried to pick the cleanest of the rags for that.

He bent and picked her up and tried not to think about it too closely. He had no idea what Shishio would say and he found that he didn't really care. If Shishio said that he could keep her, then it would be his gain. If he said to kill her, then it really wouldn't be his loss. He couldn't lose what he didn't have to begin with.

He slipped out the back door and then was away like a whisper on the breeze, still far ahead of the bandits, even with his delay and his burden. Seta Soujiro was very good at what he did.

*

He wasn't challenged when he arrived back at the base, despite his bundle. The guards knew better than to challenge him. He was the best. He was the first. He was Seta Soujiro and no one challenged him, save perhaps Shishio himself and there was never any call for that. Soujiro was more faithful than any hound could be, and besides, he was well aware of the fact that Shishio was stronger than he was. It wasn't in the sword technique, no. In that they were now even. No, Soujiro somehow deeply and instinctually felt Shishio's dominance. It was force of mood and depth of experience that made Shishio stronger, not the sword form itself, yet it was all the same. Shishio remained the strongest, and Soujiro couldn't imagine anyone ever dethroning him. It was something that he couldn't even conceive of, even when he tried. Years of time at Shisiho's side had taught him exactly how strong the former Ishin hitokiri was. It was a strength that he couldn't even touch.

So he did nothing more than nod or make light comments to the guards he passed. They rarely answered in anything other than salutes. They were quite aware that Soujiro could be as whimsical as Shishio at times and they had all heard the stories of him slaying soldiers on the spot for incompetence, insubordination, weakness, and any number of other reasons. It was the general consensus among the lower guards in Shishio's private army that it was almost never good to attract the attention of Lord Shishio himself and it was probably a signed death warrant to attract the attention of his head assassin and second in command.

He wasn't even challenged at the doors of Shishio's chambers. The guards actually scrambled to open the doors for him as they saw he had his arms full. They cast worried glances about the room and then scurried out and slid the door shut behind them.

Shishio was leaning back against a cushion near the back wall of the room. He had his eyes closed and was puffing on his hookah even as Yumi changed the bandages on his left hand. Soujiro idly strolled across the room and then sat his bundle delicately on the carpeted floor. It was still. Yumi made a small surprised sound when she saw what it was, but Shishio did not bother to open his eyes.

"What," he asked dryly, "is that?"

Soujiro's warm and absent smile didn't waver for a second as he quizzically scratched the back of his head, "It's a girl that I found while I was out last night."

"And why is it here?"

"Well," the boy started and then stopped again if he wasn't sure of the answer himself, "I suppose that I want to keep it."

Shishio opened one eye and looked at him for a moment, then closed it again.

"Maa," Soujiro shrugged, laughing, "I was afraid you'd have that reaction. Well, I suppose I had better dispose of it," he drew his katana without another thought.

"Wait," Shishio laid aside his hookah and leaned further back on his pillow before lazily turning back to Soujiro, "I've been expecting this for a while."

"You have?" asked Soujiro curiously, "Really?"

Shishio nodded, and after a moment, he spoke, "Uncover her face."

Soujiro leaned down and deftly slit the gag and blindfold with a dagger that he produced somewhere in the folds of his sleeves. He balled up the rags and then dropped them in a little pile on the floor. Shishio glanced at her then grunted noncommittally.

"All right, Soujiro. She's yours. I suggest you keep her in your rooms. There's no telling what might happen to her if she went wandering around. She's your responsibility and I expect you to kill her if she becomes a problem."

Soujiro bowed, "Ah, thank you Shishio-san. I'm still not sure why you were expecting this, though."

Shishio laughed, but he didn't sound particularly amused, "You are nineteen and have never expressed any interest in women at all. It was only a matter of time."

Soujiro shrugged and did not press the matter further.

Yumi wrinkled her nose, "She's dirty."

Soujiro nodded.

Yumi's eyes trailed over to his own legs and then she nearly shrieked, "Bouya! You've tracked mud all over my favorite rug!"

Hastily, he hopped backwards off the rug and sweatdropped guiltily, "Gomen ne, Yumi-san."

She put her hands on her hips, "Bouya, think before you ruin anything else expensive."

"Hai, Yumi-san," he took a step backward.

"You take this girl and go get cleaned up. When you're not tracking filth and grime everywhere come back and I'll try and help you find some clothes for her."

"Hai, Yumi-san," he picked up the inert girl again and then hopped backward two more steps, "Will you be needing anything else, Shishio-san?"

"Nothing pressing," Shishio had resumed puffing on his hookah.

"Well then," he glanced at Yumi, who still had her hands on her hips, "I had better be going," he glanced at the mud on the rug, "I'll be back . . . later."

He was gone before Yumi could admonish him any further.

*