FF net seems to be becoming more and more unstable. Should anything happen, this fic is also being updated on my AO3 account of same name: an_earl (with underscore).


An old memory.

Hiko was out of booze. As per usual, he went to town and stocked himself up. Then, on a whim, he took a different path up the mountain.

That night he killed forty men.

Hiko was twenty two years old. The boy he had saved was seven when Hiko told him he would make him his heir, and all that Hiko had he would give unto him: his sword, his mantle, his name; and he made good on that promise. Hiko taught him the secrets to Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. He taught him how swordsmanship was the art of killing. He taught him how to read and write. How to care for his sword. How to read ki. How to enjoy sake. How to appreciate poetry.

Then the boy went and filled his head with fantasies, idealistic notions, dreams of expelling barbarians and protecting the emperor and joining the war effort for the insipid war of the day, which happened to be Ishin Shishi. Hiko was twenty nine, and Kenshin was fourteen, and every conversation became an argument. Every day, a fight.

Until one day, Kenshin left.

And Hiko was left right back where he started: out of booze.


The Warehouse

Someone was screaming outside. Muffled voices raised upon the harbour, turning quickly into arguing, and footsteps began to thud closer as though a scuffle had broken out. Someone had found the bodies. The practical thing to do would be to take stock of their surroundings, reconfigure, and regroup. They needed to get out of here. But all Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth could manage to do was stare blankly at Shinomori Aoshi, as if he'd just told her he could divine the future and then said in no uncertain terms she grows a third arm and gets into the shamisen trade.

"You think," she said, in the same tone she spoke consolingly to terrified children, "you think I have traversed into the future?"

"No," Aoshi said plainly. "I think you have traversed from the past."

Hiko stared and stared, wondering whether he knew so much about opiates because he was inundated by some too, until a war horn sounded and she was so startled by the roar she instinctively flinched into battou-jutsu. The girl, Rin, and two other children whom she'd manage to coax awake yelped, crying for cover. Hiko broke stance and managed to grab the boy and girl before they ran off, haunching over as if shielding them from the noise.

But Rin, frightened, had run off.

Aoshi was the one most taken off guard. He actually clamped his hands around his ears and cringed — as if the sound could hurt him. But then his serious, cataloguing eyes fell away from the source of the sound to Rin.

"Miss Rin," he said. "Miss Rin, please do not stray."

Rin had begun crying again. But she did not run further. Aoshi knelt close to her, hands hovering, without touching, but then Rin flew to him, clasping his hand tightly. The horn had startled Aoshi, but the girl's plea for safety astonished him.

Aoshi walked her over to Hiko, lifted their entwined hands, and transferred Rin's hand to Hiko's.

"Go," he whispered to the girl, "go with Hiko Seijuro. Stay close to her. She will protect you."

Then he stalked off, weapons in hand.

"The war horn," Hiko began to say, but Aoshi stopped her.

"It was a ship horn. The Yakuza expecting the shipment have arrived. Reinforcements are on our tail." Aoshi dipped a hand into his coat, pulled a dark cloth from within, and fastened it around his face as a mask. Only those severe eyes peered over. "Take the victims. Hide in here. I will lead the bulk of Yakuza away. Once law enforcement arrives, you can leave them with the police. We will rendezvous at our starting point. If I don't show, return to the Aoiya. Okina will be your contact."

Aoshi pulled his kodachi free again. "I trust you will have no trouble fleeing from the law."

No, she wouldn't. Hiko looked down. The mission was a failure. And what was more incredible, Aoshi had the gall to tell her to hide. But Hiko looked down at Rin, at the boy and girl. The rest of the victims were beginning to rouse.

What was more important? Standing and killing Yakuza? Or hiding and keeping the victims safe?

Hiko held her tongue on the reflexive protest that came to the surface. Aoshi knew too, and he held his own tongue at the counter.

"…Accept my apology," Aoshi said instead, and Hiko frowned. "Your deshi…"

"I'll find him," Hiko said.

Aoshi nodded a little too slowly, as though he found the belief in her words uncompelling, but was too polite to decry it. He turned to her again, head raised as if poised to say something more, do something more — something to submit himself to make certain the apology was taken as genuine, as if he was not used to been taken at his word — when a flurry of footsteps clattered all about the perimeter, like a garrison on horseback approaching.

Then the backdoor burst open, and the slaving Yakuza filed in, each raised with sword and machete — even some with rifles.

Hiko ducked the victims behind the crates, watching Aoshi flicker a wave of shuriken into the stampede, making a bright spectacle of himself before jumping upon the salt crates. From there he climbed up to the rooftop, leading the Yakuza to follow by door or roof, clambering after him — leading the lot of them sharply away from Hiko and the victims.

But soon the stream diverted as a number of Yakuza slowed, tapering down and roving the warehouse to check the upturned boxes for their blood goods…


The Harbour

"Get away from Hiko Seijuro, Aoiya girl."

Saito had an almost inhuman control over every aspect of himself — apart from the general veneer of radiating contempt — that it was strange for Misao to catch the piqued lilt of his voice. But with his next words Misao knew immediately something was wrong.

"Makimachi," he started, and risked a dart of eyes in her direction. "…Makimachi…do you hear me?"

Misao stared at Saito as he approached. He was alone for some reason, not a man at his back. But the closer he got, the more illuminated his face became, the more weary he seemed. Saito looked in bad shape. Misao hadn't really been taking Eiji's notes to proper heart: he looked like a recovering substance addict, namely with dark rings beneath his eyes, rather bloodshot eyes, and a sickly, pallid face. There were two abrasions just above his cheekbones — new, raw scratches — as though he'd been slapped in the face.

Saito's eyes flickered quickly between Misao and Hiko before settling decidedly upon her. "Behind me, Makimachi."

Misao could barely find it in her to be indignant with the constant patronisation. It felt bad to look at him. Instead, she ignored him fully in favour of stepping in front of Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, arms braced at her hips.

"Stop. Hiko-san, you're supposed to be second to my command. I gave you the location in exchange for your help." Misao threw her head back, gesturing largely to Saito.

"You can't fight Saito! He's the Commissioner!" she said almost breathlessly, and realised at once why her heartbeat had picked up. Pulling rank, social contact: none of that talk was remotely going to work on this man. "—And if you still want to sell your pottery in Kyoto, you can't have your face plastered all over the city like Big Himura!"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Misao regretted it. She'd placed Big Himura right into the crossfire, and she could see it — the thought of him rising in Hiko's head, to the priority area that weighed Saito as a threat. For the head of a spy network, she had an extremely loose tongue that was eventually going to get her into trouble.

What's more important? Hiko's pottery? Or Big Himura?

Misao just got Saito killed.

Hiko looked down, regarding her without so much as a reaction. "…Why do you stand on the side of the Wolf?"

He'd said it as a mere whisper, just between the two of them. As if…as if he were genuinely perplexed how she could betray Himura by speaking for Saito.

"His side? This isn't about sides! Why on earth would I be on his side? You're supposed to be on mine," Misao said defensively.

Frustration rolled at the back of her mind. She didn't understand what Saito's play was and apparently neither had her informant. Maybe he was framing Himura, maybe he wasn't. The only thing she factually knew was what she saw in front of her: Saito was not in the right mind.

There didn't need to be a fight. If only she can talk them down…but Saito cut through her thoughts in his tight, matter-of-fact tone—

"Whatever he's said to you, he's lying, Makimachi."

Saito's eyes slipped towards the grounds, surveying the dead bodies littered about with a slow, dangerous gaze, bringing her attention back to it.

"Tell her." Saito turned his sword up at Hiko. "Tell her it was Hiten Mitsurugi ryu that killed these people."

Misao's eyes widened. "What?"

She stifled a laugh. Saito had completely lost it. When Misao turned to share the stupid humour of it with Hiko, she was met with a changed man. Hiko's eyes had narrowed into bitter slits. He looked …mutinous. Misao backed away from him.

He had known — Hiko had known, the second he'd put his eyes on the scene — what had killed these people. He was offended Saito had revealed to her the truth. Shuriken flitted instantly between Misao's fingers. She braced one leg back, ready to propel for attack.

But who was the enemy here?

Hiko Seijuro had lied. Saito Hajime put out a warrant on Himura.

There was something missing, something blinking out to Misao like a speeding train out of a tunnel, then barrelling out of view again, veiling back into darkness: something about the murders was not adding up.

If it was Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, then Hiko Seijuro was the murderer.

But his alibi was airtight. Misao was the alibi — Hiko had been with her all night.

And if Saito accused Hiko as the false Battousai, there was no logic in framing Himura.

Come to think of it, where the hell was Himura right now?

The only person who could use Hiten Mitsurugi ryu and could possibly had been at the scene was—

Misao stopped her line of thought.

By then the pause stretched on too long. Both parties had grown impatient. When Hiko Seijuro slowly parted his cloak and went casually for his sword Saito charged — not even yelling, not making a sound — just plain charged.

So when Misao saw Hiko's gritted expression and turned to see Saito pulling back to drill Gatotsu through Hiko, Misao crouched, unleashed her fistful of shuriken at — Saito.

The manic light in Saito's eyes didn't change, his mind not parsed at all by the attack. His body twisted, skirting strenuously to evade the shuriken and weave back towards Hiko.

Misao stood to disarm. But with one great sweep Hiko dragged Misao off her feet, flinging her bodily out of the way, sending her to a skidding stop.

Misao looked up just in time to see Hiko meet Saito in the attack, the metal-on-metal eliciting a horrifying, yet pleasing ring—


The Warehouse

Officer Sou, Takano and Lieutenant Kagehisa's patrols were gathered. Eiji had had them break the perimeter and enter within 500 metres of The Incident. That alone was going to get Eiji suspended. At least that would make the Lady happy. But it didn't matter, he was sure the Commissioner would understand — Eiji simply knew something the Commissioner did not.

Eiji knew the warehouse was the base of operations for the Yakuza's trafficking ring, courtesy of Misao. They were still in the middle of planning the raid when this complication had broken out — it just so happened he had to do it without Saito's knowledge or Misao and the Oniwaban's support. At least he had Saito's Commissioner's seal. That was enough to convince the patrols to his command. Saito would probably sit him down later and tell him a story about how the Shinsengumi would de-hand him for a misfeasance like this. Then he would tell Saito it was lucky they both weren't in Shinsengumi.

Whatever. Eiji led the patrols to the backdoor of the warehouse, bypassing the front entrance for a more quiet, targeted attack. When he found the backdoor already burst off its hinges, he frowned. There was a ship on the harbour — one docked without flags. A slaving transport, no doubt. Eiji flickered his hand, flashing hand signs quickly. But then he sighed to himself, feeling like an idiot. The Commissioner hadn't taught all the officers the Shinsengumi's callsigns.

"Lieutenant," he whispered, "to the ship. It's flying no flag — and it's not a fishing boat. Get your men onto it, arrest anyone on board."

The Lieutenant Kagehisa shook his head. "I'll leave half a patrol here, stop anyone from entering or leaving. The bulk of the unit goes inside."

Good idea. The Lieutenant was sharp like that, that was why the Commissioner frequently assigned him to lead. Eiji took a step back, let the Lieutenant take a look in the warehouse window, when suddenly gunshots broke out. It was Officer Sou that dove, grabbing Eiji and rolling him out of the way.

Before the shots stopped Eiji struggled away from Sou, running into the warehouse with sword drawn. "Go!" Eiji screamed, "The victims are still inside! Stop the Yakuza! Restrain anyone with firearms first!"

"Go! Support Mishima!"

"Follow! Follow!"

"You're under arrest! You're all under arrest!"

After charging into the dark, damp warehouse the first thing Eiji noticed was the rancid, days-old smell of fish. The second thing he noticed was a Yakuza with a Murata rifle, back towards him. Eiji ran on instinct, slashing the Yakuza cleanly across the back before he could fire the shot he was aiming straight at—

At a tall assailant, holding a sword, with a pile of mewling Yakuza at their feet.

Behind them, a number of shivering children, hidden in a corner with their eyes covered by their hands.

The assailant was holding a Yakuza by the collar, pulling his spleen off their sword truly like a butcher at a slaughterhouse, with blood pooling at the feet and carcasses littered on the ground.

"Don't open your eyes," the swordsman whispered.

There were still a dozen Yakuza circling the sight. One of the men leapt on Eiji suddenly, and he swivelled, slashing them in the arm before kicking another Yakuza out of the way and continuing after the suspect swordsman.

"To the victims! To the victims! Fortify!" Eiji called.

"To the victims! Fortify!" The police yelled behind him, flooding fully into the warehouse and overrunning every inch of it.

The swordsman's cloak flapped as if stripped by wind — they were going at such an incredible speed they seemed to be running across the crates and wall horizontally. Eiji barely got a good look at them before they pulled their sword, cutting an exit into the rusted iron and wood, and then careened out with cloak fluttering behind them. A ghost of an after-vision, in bright white.

"We got a runner!" Eiji signalled, despite being unsure what exactly he'd seen. "Suspect westbound — follow!"

Takano took his unit and bolted after the suspect. Lieutenant Kagehisa and Sou remained to secure the area and fend off any more arriving Yakuza.

"Apprehend them — suspect dressed in white!" Takano cried, and Eiji physically slumped, confirming what he'd seen was real.

Eiji got to the victims first. "Hey, hey! It's okay now. It's gonna be all okay now." He took a large breath. From one moment to the next, he changed his voice to the one he used at home with the boys. "Everything's gonna to be okay. You can open your eyes now. "

One of the girls — younger than he was when Shingetsu Village was taken — her eyes went as wide as saucers seeing his uniform. With his heart hammering, Eiji realised this was the reason he wore it. Looking startled and relieved, she took his arm and held on tight.

"It's alright. It's alright, little sis." Eiji pulled her in, gesturing for the others to come close. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

The girl nodded. Even though she'd been in such a high stress state, she was not crying. In fact, all the kids who had been forcibly disappeared for days seemed rather calm in the face of the sword fights and gunshots. Whoever the swordsman was, it seemed the children had trusted them enough to keep their eyes shut even as Yakuza swarmed the building.

"Rin," the girl said. "Isaku Rin."


Kyoto

At the speed of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, the wind was an abject cry. A howling, roiling thing that whipped and tossed. It oftentimes reduced the world into nothing but screeching, blotting out everything else except the beat of blood through her veins and harsh cycling breath in her lungs. But Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth loved the roaring. She loved the violent rush of wind at either side, two wild snapping beasts at her flank. It made her feel like she was flying. Or falling. Either way, it was a thrill she hadn't the occasion to enjoy until now, what with slaughtering slavers.

The Shogunate enforcers nipped at her tail, running urgently behind her. Hiko needed to get to the rendezvous point to meet with the ninja. He had led a horde of Yakuza away and was still somewhere in the Akako area. If she could rendezvous with Aoshi, she could leverage whatever he knew about Battousai to find the rest of the slavers' operation. But she needed to play her cards with more care than the fishmongers did: the law enforcement seemed leagues stronger than in her memory, no longer the common hired thugs of warlords. They were well-formed, and well-armed. She took heed of her own hand: the risk of an episode increased every minute.

"Suspect westbound! Westbound!"

"Toriya Street!"

"Look for a white coat!"

"White!"

"Shoot on sight!"

Orders and shouting lapped at her feet, reverberating around the tight corners of the side streets and walled-off dead ends she had to turn from. The policemen had split off, now following her hot on her heels. Hiko sucked in a breath and came to a disgruntled stop when a voice sounded to her left so close by she knew she had been found.

"White coat! Found them! Over here!"

A whistle screamed.

Hiko turned a corner, sword held at the ready, only to find—

—A completely empty street without no one in it.

There was no policeman anywhere to be seen. Only a small contraption — the whistle — on the floor.

"Here! Here!"

Hiko turned to run again. Three men wandered by to her location, footsteps trampling heavy, but something about the sound of their voices suddenly muffling into nothing alerted her something was wrong. First they screamed and shouted. Then they were quiet. When she stopped to face the men, there was no one behind her.

Hiko had started this run with a stampede of police at her back. There were at least a dozen in the unit. Then there were ten. Eight. Less than that. The shouting in unison eventually broke down into single, dwindling bursts. Muffled half-orders.

Had they all given up? What a merry thought.

"Here!"

From an alley close by another shout echoed out for reinforcement.

"Two suspects — another suspect! Red! RED! — No — wait — HEL—"

Wind roared in Hiko's ears as she streaked to location. In the alley, the police who had called out let out a jarring scream. A scream made more jarring by the way it was abruptly cut off — an expert technique obviously designed to compel silence in a victim. By the time Hiko arrived, the police was lying still on the ground.

The moon filtered down the alley. Sweat beaded at the nape of her neck. A chill, unlike anything she'd experienced, travelled slow and abject down Hiko's spine. She had no idea what it was that piqued her, just a series of small tells: the muffled sounds, the clean streets, the unsettled dust, the sharp change in wind pressure — the ghost ki of someone else.

Someone was watching Hiko Seijuro right now.

Someone had followed her without break this entire run.

Someone had picked off the men on her tail, one by one...

One after the other.

With a quick breath, Hiko took to a run.

She flickered off into the dark, into the roar of wind. It was the great danger and, admittedly, great thrill of godspeed — the rushing sensation distracted the user from environmental cues and relied heavily on sight. She did not know this Kyoto well enough, but she sprinted by forgetting the way to the rendezvous point. The only thought she had in her mind right now was to lose the one following her.

Yet the sense of wrongness pervaded. The roaring in her ears suddenly sounded louder and louder, larger and larger, like a growing maelstrom, like the beasts at her side had transformed — into something alive — something accusatory and predatory.

There was a figure barrelling close by, dipping into Hiko's ambit and then blinking out again, weaving close and then disappearing. Sounds of rampant footfalls shattered tiles above her head, a streak of red flickered in her eye. The idea of it disoriented her enough she actually fell from her speed, slowing down back to a run.

Up above, the colour of his hair and his clothes just barely illuminated, was a samurai.

His hair was a strange, dusty red. His gi, soaked in blood.

The samurai vaulted from roof to roof, hanging off eaves to swing himself to another. When the buildings diverged, he disappeared once or twice only to reappear streaking across a high balcony or rooftop. Kyoto was narrow and winding, tightly bordered by buildings. Any direction Hiko took, the samurai did the same on the rooftops. It wasn't just that: one would have to know these streets well enough to be able to keep up with someone like Hiko, but it was as if this samurai had a map solely comprised of Kyoto by rooftop in his head. Any direction Hiko turned, the samurai followed. Any change in godspeed Hiko chose, the samurai matched. Any break in pattern copied seamlessly.

Hiko faltered as the thought unbalanced her. That somewhere in this dark, alley to alley, there were eyes upon her whether she could see them or not, and she could not tell from where he would strike. Each rooftop, eave, wall and tower was a waiting, open threat. If he could match her here, she was a sitting duck. A mouse, running into the claws of a predator.

All the while, Hiko couldn't help the hairs at the back of her head pricking. The pinprick unease in her buried like a splinter she couldn't quite reach, that was needling deeper into her skin until she couldn't get it out—

It was not the feeling of being tailed. There was being followed by strange men into dark corners, and then there was being hunted.

Being stalked.

This samurai was hunting Hiko Seijuro down like vermin.

Up ahead, the figure of a lone policeman came into view. The sight made her nauseous. Hiko had been running, shepherded, in circles.

"Squadron?" the police uttered.

"Mito? Genma? Where— Whatta you all doing — we needa secure the suspect!"


The Harbour

Saito yanked back, thrusting forward with Gatotsu at pinpoint precision for the jugular. Yet Himura's brute of a master evaded with the balletic grace of a dancer. Infuriating. The altered side-slash, even with the full momentum of the Gatotsu, did not even pass for a counter-attack as it sliced worthlessly through air. Hiko Seijuro had disappeared.

With a start, Saito leapt out of the way.

Just as he did, Hiko came down like an anvil, cracking the pavement in half. Saito rolled back on his feet, inwardly gaping. It took some onerous seconds for him to parse the attack as Ryūsuisen. It was Himura's most beloved attack, and he'd barely recognised it because this absolute Goliath was able to unroot the crust of the earth with it. Weight class, after all, made a difference. For that reason the man had a much more grounded style, with less aerial flair than Himura. But if Saito had so tried to meet that Ryūsuisen, he'd have shattered his body down to the toes. He'd have been hand-fed runny okayu the rest of his life.

As the man wasted time unsticking his sword from the ground Saito charged again, thrusting. Hiko spun, meeting the attack just in time with leisurely surety. He pushed tightly, breaking Saito's form before striking at chest-level. Saito dropped to the ground, right hand above sword to break Hiko's line of sight, before thrusting Gatotsu Shishiki. It was the weaker attack out of the Gatotsu forms, but the instantaneous turn-around proved invaluable.

Yet Hiko swept his sword in hurricane motion, evading an attack he couldn't see by defending in a circular arc. Saito followed the arc of the parry, and when it came tracing towards his side he let go.

His left hand let go of the sword and right hand took over — straight into a slashing counter.

Hiko took one crunching step back.

Saito grunted at the near miss.

Hiko slowed to a standstill and peered down to survey his sword. It was an exquisite thing, Saito hated to admit. In a trick of the light, the blade glowed almost blue in colour.

"…I see how 'Battousai' could have had trouble with you," Hiko said, thumbing his chin thoughtfully. "An ambidextrous fighting style. How rare."

He made a face — a face of wry amusement. Like he'd discovered a novelty.

Just like Battousai.

"I wonder how many little scuffles you have had with my former deshi." The man stopped to contemplate a moment. "You're a practitioner of some form of Itto-ryu. There is some…pure instinct, muscle memory…designed solely to evade certain death from Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. And even then — not to find openings, but to make them."

Hiko made an affirmative noise in his throat. But Saito did not have time to impress upon him further. Saito steeled himself, keeping in mind he could not block a point blanc attack from this acute barbarian.

Hiko slowly, openly, sheathed his sword.

But right before he could pull it and lay waste to the street, a hail of shuriken came raining down in his direction.

Hiko pulled the sword.

The battou-jutsu was blinding. Just blue-white zig-zags. Spinning lights one sees after concussion.

A patter of shuriken falling was the only evidence the sword was connecting before the projectile shuriken were suddenly redirected — at Saito.

"SAITO!" The Aoiya girl.

One of the shuriken flew past him, striking Saito in the temple. Only a cut.

Himura's master sheathed his sword again. Makimachi screamed at the man to stand down. Her attack was hamfistedly tactical, despite how it spiked Saito's blood pressure to feverous levels: she attacked his performance of battou-jutsu. Sabotage.

Crafty girl. Saito supposed he should thank buddha she knew not to come barrelling in — getting caught in the crossfire could skewer her. Her quick thinking had saved him, but Saito wished she hadn't done that. She must know as Saito did: it was now beyond his ability to shield her.

Saito went at Hiko with another Gatotsu. Hiko evaded again, but as he did he made a play-thrust of his own. The attack caught Saito in the pectorals, jabbing inches deep. When Saito pivoted forward, following his retreat, Hiko's sword came razing from the side, cutting Saito in the hip.

Saito ignored the pain, made a dash for it, sliding back into his right hand. All the attacks and anticipated parries were now mirrored in reverse. It was a confusion tactic, one that had gotten in a few good wounds on Battousai in the past. Using Gatotsu with his right hand, Hiko parried it. Saito gambled, dropped his sword. He spun, catching it with his left hand to continue the attack. Hiko slashed it out of the way. Saito followed the movement, switched to his right hand, slashed upwards. Hiko angled slightly to the left. Saito carried on a quick succession of attacks, using a hybrid of Itto-ryu that dealt in punishing slashes and plenty of quick-thrusts. Hiko parried every single one.

At the end of the barrage Hiko's sword snapped shut back in its sheath, and Saito stopped.

Makimachi warned him with a shout, as if it wasn't obvious. Look out, Commish, the bullnecked serial killing Battousai master is going to use the instant death technique. For your information.

Saito skidded backwards in a wake of dust. He panted, regulating his breath. His hip was already a stinging mess. His grip, a steel trap. His jaw, a clenched grin.

The next attack was going to be battou-jutsu.

He could defend against Himura's battou-jutsu in his prime.

But he was not in his prime. And this, he noted, was not Himura.

Saito held no delusions of grandeur. Fanciful, egotistic notions like that could get one killed. He had always done what the job needed him to do. If that included playing along with simpletons and bowing performatively for wannabes he would get on his hands and knees and do it. Saito was a pragmatist. It was time to shift the paradigm.

Saito eased up, looked the man up and down in consideration. "There's this…there's a certain understanding between comrades who fight on the front lines," Saito started. "Between people who are ready to fight and die alongside one another. But there is also a certain understanding between enemies on opposing sides. Isn't that right, Hiko Seijuro?"

Hiko regarded this with a musing face. "Elaborate."

Saito scoffed, accepting that admission. "Fighting is anarchy, war is messy. It is putrid and untidy and chaotic. But strangely, with chaos, comes clarity. All that becomes clear in a moment of chaos, is who one is, and what one is fighting for."

Hiko's jaw clenched fractionally.

"Saito—" Makimachi whispered from the sidelines. "Saito — I wouldn't antagonise him."

"…He was like you." Saito heard his own voice come out, oddly small against the broken pavement and fair night. More…real than he'd intended, more sincere. But it was true. There was no reason to hide behind dishonesty. Hiko listened intently, his attention captured. "I did not know him as the Aoiya girl knew him, nor the other adolescents from Tokyo. I did not know the buffoon that wore red and makes a fool of himself for sport. I knew him as you."

Saito fell into step again. Circling. "You. A pulled, live sword," he spat. "A merciless, flat-faced murderer."

Hiko listened to all this without comment, just drinking it in with a half-smile.

"When I look at you, I understand. I understand how a man like Battousai came to be." Saito dragged up his sword, pointed at Hiko. "The only difference is that he had something to fight for. To die for. But you, Hiko Seijuro?"

Hiko's half-smile tapered off into nothing.

"You have nothing."

Saito dipped into Gatotsu.

"You fight for nothing."

Hiko said nothing in return. In an instant, he was gone. The sound of releasing battou-jutsu rang out, a haunting cry. Makimachi shouted.

But Saito flashed a hand sign in the sky, and another gunshot rang out — a loud, ear-splitting bang. Hiko swept the battou-jutsu through the street, upwards into the sky. A bullet had zipped through, aimed at his chest. The battou-jutsu was redirected to glance against the bullet—

When a second bullet in the same, shadowing trajectory as the last whizzed on, forcing Hiko to wince back—

Leaving Hiko distracted against Saito's razing Gatotsu — cutting him in the arm.

Got him!


Kamoda, the young yet greying officer, lay stock flat on his front some hundred metres away, on a commercial rooftop with his other rifle. A predecessor of the Murata, the Prototype Rifle was quickly designed out of the way for the bayonetted, easy-ignition Muratas as the shiny new service rifles. But the Prototype was better, faster, longer-ranging than the Murata by far. It also had significant recoil and a thundering sound. It was hard to handle and hard to aim. There simply weren't any skilled enough infantryman to use it.

But Kamoda was different. Saito found him during the Satsuma Rebellion. When the front infantrymen were still busy reloading, Kamoda was onto his second or third round, gunning down the last dredges of samurai haught. Like it was a game of throwing rings. Like he was Hachiman, and bullets and rifle were his divine bow and arrow. He gunned down hatamoto in a way that Saito never could with sword or subpar trigger finger.

With that defective gun, Kamoda was a better killer than Saito was. The problem was, Kamoda hated killing. Not like Himura — who could kill at will at any time and made the active, bird-brained decision not to — Kamoda could not stomach it. The man was averse to blood. Terrified of death. He routinely disgorged around infirm bodies. He could not witnesses seppuku. He could not witness executions.

Saito had discovered Kamoda when he shot down every assailant from more than fifty metres away. The field directly in front of him was always green and clean. At the end of the battle, Saito took stock that every samurai still squirming and whining on the grass begging mercy was one that Kamoda shot.

No man that he shot that day died.

Not only was Kamoda able to use a gun pushed onto low-ranking infantrymen with a design flaw, he utilised it to his utter benefit. Not only could he shoot with sharp, unlikely accuracy — he could apparently do it with such surgical precision he had never achieved a killing shot.

Once the truth came out, the man was quickly sent to the brig.

Only Saito could see Kamoda was not some intelligentsia spy, nor a filthy traitor.

He was just a right coward.


Kyoto

Moments ago…

The moon, vivid in its fullness, suffered under the cover of cloud, making the sky deceptively bright but the streets as dark as one all those years ago. The same kind of song sounded again, filling the air with familiar clangs of swords clashing, weapons ringing, the zing and zip of stray bullets flying, and men crying out: comrades screaming in mourning as their brothers-in-arms fell, soldiers bellowing battlecries to summon themselves courage, the screech of pain as blood and body bent and faltered. In a grim return to a distant memory, like an old polaroid film darkening to harsh visibility, fight had broken out across the Akako Area harbour.

And Kenshin, lying in wait under the cover of trees and shrubbery just off the pathway to the commotion, watched unblinking as a sword broke through the walls of a warehouse building, and a swordsman burst their way out.

In a short, stark moment, Kenshin recognised the figure. The mantle of the Hiten Mitsurugi ryu fluttered mutely in the wind as the white silhouette stopped, looked up into the sky, and breathed in the crisp air.

Hiko Seijuro.

Then all of a sudden, Hiko moved. He sliced at the air, suddenly going into a quick kata that felt similar to Kenshin's own. Kenshin realised, with some delay, that he was cleaning his sword. The blood upon it flew off the edges, vanishing like vapour. Kenshin watched with eagle-like appraisal. Finally, he stepped out to confront his master.

But with one wrong landing, Kenshin lost his footing, tripped, and fumbled to a knee right in font of a stone statue. Kenshin picked himself up, checking if he'd lost his position.

Looking down, Kenshin huffed.

A statue of a buddha sat right at his feet, leering, as if watching his sanity unravel with a serene smile on his face.

Kenshin bit down hard, grimacing, with his knuckles cracking as he gathered dirt in his hands and crushed it, feeling twenty years of pent up grievances well up his throat until he could retch it out — retch it all out and get clean — get clean of shame and death and Battousai and Hiko Seijuro — once and for all.

With this fight, he will clear his name. So his son after him can live without a shadow to his.

Kenshin bowed low to the buddha and spat out a prayer.

Help me defeat Hiko Seijuro.

Then he stepped out.

The sound of the sword sheathing shut with a ring was Kenshin's indication that Hiko was on the move again, and when he slunk into the open he quickly realised why — a number of policeman were on his tail.

The streets were eerily black. Under curfew a blackout was enforced — something to repel people from wandering out with a serial killer loose after dark. Every stone lamp, lantern and store bulb was put out. The usually bustling nightly street, completely smothered. During Bakumatsu curfews and blackouts were commonplace. It created the perfect conditions for a midnight run, turning Kyoto every sundown into what could be described as an assassin's hunting ground.

Kenshin sprinted out to follow, keeping to the rooftop as he ran alongside them in the bitter dark. The first officer Kenshin grabbed from behind a bend in an alley, smothering them with arms. The second he tripped with a hook of his feet, then slammed them sharply into a wall to unconsciousness. The third and fourth he hammered in the back of the head with an elbow and crack of sheath respectively, and the next he grabbed from the shadows. Officer after officer disappeared from the chase, vanishing off the trail until only the command was left.

The officer, with the initials Takano scrawled across his tactical belt, spun around. Seeing no one at his back, he paled.

"Squadron?"

Kenshin peeled himself from the shadows.

"Mito? Genma? Where— Whatta you all doing — we needa secure the suspect!"

Takano did not see Kenshin until late, stumbling back with jittery energy when he did.

Kenshin said nothing. There simply was no time to explain. Better to pack this officer up and leave him in an alley — breathing — rather than have him or his squad come into contact with Hiko. What on earth was Saito doing, letting his agents out against a threat like this? Kenshin broke into a run, arms outstretched, ready to incapacitate the man—

When another pair of arms burst from the dark, grasping Takano. There was a crack, and then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

"No!" Kenshin cried out.

His eyes went wide. He stared at the officer's body…the officer's still-breathing body.

He'd only been knocked unconscious.

Kenshin's eyes trailed to Hiko's silhouette, tall and domineering like a wraith, and saw red.

"What in Tathagata's name are you doing?"

Kenshin almost withdrew, stunned by hearing the sound of his own voice ring back.

His words had come out as yelling. But then his teeth gnashed together, he swallowed his sense of proprietary, his sense of decorum, and screamed at Hiko.

"Why are you doing this? Why? Why?! Because you're Hiko Seijuro? Because people had the audacity to piss you off?! Newsflash, Master! Everybody pisses you off — everybody! Will you empty Kyoto because you hate everyone in it? Will you kill the world because you can?" Kenshin heaved, his ribcage jolting as unfettered rage filled him wave after wave. "What could you possibly gain by killing people like this? Becoming a — a terrorist?! A serial killer?! Do you have any idea what they're calling you," Kenshin yelled, and then his voice cracked, dissolving, humiliatingly, into sobs. "You — You — They're — they're calling you Battousai! Must this lowly one remind you — you! HATE! BATTOUSAI!"

Here, Kenshin stopped. He gasped for breath suddenly, feeling as though he'd done a full night run, feeling as though he'd just finished fighting Shishio, disarming Enishi, feeling as though he'd just learned the succession technique.

"…They think," Kenshin scraped along, "you are Battousai. And now — this one is blamed. This one is accused. This lowly one has spent ten years of his life to repent. Yet this lowly one is as guilty as you are in the eyes of the people."

Kenshin's shaking hand reached for his sword. There, he settled snugly on his grip, instantly becoming steady again.

"You are a cruel, careless man. You have ruined my life."

Kenshin sunk into battou-jutsu stance.

"But this lowly one is going to take it back, Shishou."

As soon as Kenshin moved into stance, Hiko's silhouette came marching forward. At the same time, a sliver of moonlight shifted, slanting diagonally across the floor until it beamed briefly over his master. Kenshin immediately realised something was wrong. Had…had Hiko grown shorter? Slimmer? Once his own panting had died down — more from being on edge rather than physical toil — Kenshin realised Hiko had yet to catch his breath from the run. It had been several years since he'd seen the man — Kenshin recoiled at the thought Hiko could have…wasted away and become old while he wasn't looking. That thought upset him in way that dropped out his stomach. Hiko had always seemed…so strong. So powerful. A giant, in every way. He suddenly felt it was hard to look at him, even though he couldn't exactly look away.

Was he still struggling for breath?

"What is wrong with you?" Kenshin swayed out of battou-jutsu stance. "Shishou, what—"

"I'm not your shishou," came a laboured, tenor voice.

Kenshin startled out of stance, raising his head and piercing his eyes into the dark. From the shadows a cloaked woman, with strikingly short hair and matching pair of swords, stepped out into the slim moonlight.

"But I do have something in common," she croaked. She was still finding her breath. "I, too, loathe Battousai. But I'm not him."

Kenshin stepped back. His mouth shut into a thin line, stunned he had just — just rampaged all over this woman. Yelled at her. This was a hundred times worse than what he'd shown Megumi. This terrible, angry, vengeful part of him.

"Those Shogunate men. You got them off my tail," the swordswoman said, and Kenshin blinked, baffled. "Though I realise that was not your intent — you were mistaken in the person you were looking for — I thank you all the same. Now this is where I take my leave."

Kenshin, jarred by this entire affair, was heavily put off his footing by the calm, collected manner in which she spoke. It was as if she was showing him some inexplicable courtesy — a great mercy — not to have reacted or referred to any of the deeply personal matters Kenshin had just battered her with. As if he'd just exposed himself, naked and soft and sobbing, like a child in tantrum. He hadn't even the time to fully thread it through his head that his wife had been right all along:

Hiko was not the murderer.

Kaoru was right.

The swordswoman turned, clearly not trying to coax conversation. She had been getting away from the crime scene. She turned to resume.

Kenshin moved on instinct, flashing across on the wall to land before her again.

The swordswoman looked him up and down slowly.

Kenshin said nothing, reaching for his sword again, signalling her his intentions. He could not let her get away.

This swordswoman was the true killer of Kyoto.

She was one of the imposter Battousai.

The blotted sky, weary with cloud, finally let up. Bright moonlight draped over the hollow street. It seemed to glean off the white cloak, making the swordswoman — the temporal picture of an onnabugeisha the way Kenshin retained some likeness of a samurai — glow. Then he realised the reason why he'd been so easily led astray.

Kenshin knew that cloak. Knew the striking red lapels. The carefully concealed weights. The white cape of the cloak, which lay only a few shy inches off the floor on the shorter woman instead of at the calve on his master, was dirtied at the hem with blood.

"Where—" Kenshin wet his lips. He swallowed down, trying to get moisture in his throat again when the words came out garbled. "—Where did you get that cloak?"

The onnabugeisha cocked her head. "You do not want to fight me, Samurai."

Kenshin's face scrunched at that incredulous address, hands automatically going for his sword.

But the onnabugeisha saw his turn in hand, and took it as offence. "Do not flaunt your supposed battou-jutsu at me! That is a fool's errand. Let me tell you something about myself, Samurai. Ever since this onnabugeisha has inherited this sword," she said, in a careful, warning tone, "she has never, in her life, lost a fight."

As if to accompany that point, she unsheathed her sword partway.

Under the moonlight, the glint of blade that reflected it was blue in colour. She lifted it to catch the light purposefully, then sheathed it with that clear, distinctive ring. Her thumb slipped off the ornate markings as it did, revealing its beautifully engraved hilt.

Kenshin lost himself and attacked.


A cautionary tale.

The stories were, to put it lightly, quite entertaining at first: the word spoke of a vengeful wraith sweeping the streets of Kyoto clean, watering the streets with plentiful blood; the manslayer who butchered men like meat, the assassin so quick and efficient not a man marked for death saw morning, the Choshu's drawn sword.

Then, in truly gaudy fashion, the Shishi grew bold — bold enough to announce their dirty murders, bold enough to claim the brazen assassinations, bold enough to rain calling cards down on the city.

Heaven's Justice, by the hand of Hitokiri Battousai.

By then, it wasn't so funny. By then, Hiko had known. It was Kenshin: it had to be, the few descriptions were few and far between, but even without them there could be no mistake with the level of competency, pure killing prowess, and complete battou-jutsu mastery. But it simply couldn't be: it sounded nothing like the disciple Hiko trained, the child Hiko raised, the one who found him cool rocks to keep and played spinning top and innocently ate poisonous mushrooms. Maybe he should clamp his hands over his ears, shut his eyes and chant a tune, that is not Kenshin, that is not Kenshin, that is not Kenshin. What a farce.

The truth was that Hiko would never have thought that the boy he saved would willingly choose to become a shadow assassin.

Just like the man who spent ten years wandering the country, righting petty wrongs, atoning for his sins, would willingly become a serial killer.

Life loved to play tricks on Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth.

What was so unbelievable about Kenshin killing again?


Notes.

This chapter took a lot of rewrites to shoehorn in two important scenes. I was trying to keep either one or the other but then realised I needed both!

1) We really need to see Hiko 12 meet the Real Battousai, on Battousai's turf. She thinks Battousai is some common thug she can beat down, like all the other common thugs she's beaten down. She doesn't understand why people fear Battousai. The Real Battousai walks in Kyoto along all the fakes, and they are not the same.

2) This is the only chance for us to look in Kenshin's mind and see him confront Hiko with his rage. The second he realises it's not Hiko 13, all that delicious anger and indignance is swept away.

A really important 'character' in the fic is Winter Moon, the sword. To make it unique and identifiable I've written in the engraved habaki near the hilt, the blue glow (just like in the Trust and Betrayal OVA) and the distinctive, almost pleasing sound it makes when it clashes with another sword.

One hilarious (and rather dark) detail are the scratches on Saito's face. As though he'd 'been slapped.' This is supposed to connect back to the previous scene where Saito just finished the worst meeting with his hack boss ever, and then immediately had to get back to work - which was informing this bereaved mother her daughter had died. Of course, she did not take the message well.

Saito would not keep around a spineless guy like Kamoda if he didn't have his uses. This was foreshadowed back in ch7 when Kamoda finally picks up his rifle and Saito reacts like this: "KAMODA!" Commissioner Fujita actually screamed. "DON'T SHOOT BATTOUSAI!" I just think it's so funny. Other than his shooting skills, it's clear Saito let this guy into his inner circle because he sees him too inept to possibly be a mole.

I'm going to spend some time on these fight scenes. They're really the only time in this fic these gigantic characters can ever be injured in a fight. As if Hiko 12 could get hit by some cops. Lol. As if Hiko 13 will have trouble against some Yakuza thugs. No, the only realistic fight scene tension will be if the main characters fight each other!