AMERICA

April 15, 1974

HAMATO YOSHI:

The cement hissed at me as I pushed the manhole cover aside and climbed upward. A flash of lightning illuminated the world around me, and for just an instant, I saw New York City as the rest of the world did. Tall buildings reached toward the angry sky as sheets of rain pounded the city streets. This city never quieted, never slept... but the rain was ample persuasion to stay indoors.

Cars swept past, spraying rainwater onto the cement sidewalks. I looked around the darkened alley, not entirely sure what I was looking for. This strange and unfamiliar world was as unforgiving as it was corrupt. There was no one I could turn to for help, but the painful emptiness in my stomach had grown too much to bear. I knew I must find food, or I would die.

I paused as I approached the open street. I did not like such unprotected places. Out there, there was no place to hide, and no way to escape danger. Who could know what danger one would come upon in this new world? I backed away from the city lights, resolving to stay hidden in the shadows.

Over the alley wall I climbed. I slinked through the maze of darkened passages, my eyes darting to anything that moved. The hiss of the rain made it impossible to hear the quiet sounds that might warn of danger, and nearly impossible to see. I was forced to rely on my other senses.

Out of the quiet blackness, I heard a voice speaking. They spoke in English, of which I comprehended very little. Even had I been fluent in the language, I could never have understood the words over the storm. I paused, and considered walking in the other direction. But as I turned, something inside of me rebelled. Sighing against the feelings that I could not identify nor control, I walked toward the voice.

It was a man. His tone was angry and threatening. He stood over a smaller figure, pressed into the shadow of the alleyway. I cocked my head slightly to the side as I watched the scene. She spoke, her voice quiet and meek. He responded in a yell, and she cowered, crouching back as if to make herself small. They engaged in conversation using a universal form of communication. The language of fear was unmistakeable, regardless of one's culture.

I watched as the rain pounded his massive shoulders, and dripped from his hair. He breathed in, and his fury-filled eyes blinked. He exhaled angry words, as a stream of venom from his lips. She pleaded. His hand moved to his belt. I felt every nerve in my body stand on edge as he pulled back a black object, glistening in the rain. He held it toward her, and it clicked as he readied it. She closed her eyes in defeat and bowed her head as a single tear trickled down her cheek, mingling with the rain.

I acted out of instinct, and some primal urge to protect. A part of me recognized that their dispute was not my concern. But a much larger part could not deny the silent plea that her soul had emitted, whether to me or to God, that she might be spared from whatever punishment she had earned. Perhaps it was no punishment at all. Perhaps it was a primitive sort of terrorism that he fed on. It did not greatly matter to me.

My body flew into action, requiring no assistance from my mind. Reflex actions guided me and my hands became weapons. As my weapon clashed with his, there was a loud, piercing explosion. For a fraction of a second, I was disarmed as pain radiated through me. Pushing aside the instinctive urge to retreat, I struck a nerve cluster on the inside of his arm. He cried out in pain, dropping the gun. As it began to fall, I spun and kicked the side of his head, likely deafening him in his right ear. He crashed to the alley floor at the same instant the gun did.

I retreated quickly and silently, back to the shadows, where I watched the awestruck figure still on her knees. When she looked around, she saw nothing but darkness. Though I could not clearly see her face, I could see that she was not an American. I studied her closely, well aware that she could not see me, as she tried to get to her feet. As she pulled herself up, her leg gave way and she collapsed again in tears, clutching her ankle.

I felt hot blood trickle down my arm toward my fingers, but dared not move. I remained in silence as she tried again to raise herself. Again, she failed. She lay on the alley floor, staring at the unconscious figure beside her. She reached for his weapon with trembling fingers, and clutched it close to her. "Help," she said quietly. Then louder. She turned her head toward the cloud covered sky. "Help!"

I did not know the word, but I knew what it meant. I looked to see if someone would help her. There was no movement in the surrounding area. "Help!"

Forcing aside caution, I stepped forward, out of the shadows. She gasped and turned the gun toward me. I froze as her hand trembled around it, but she was no threat. Slowly, I held out a hand to her. "Help," I repeated.

She lowered the gun slowly, and spoke to me in English. I stared at her, wishing I could understand her words. I said nothing, and stepped closer. "Help," I said again, offering her a hand.

She set the gun down hesitantly and gripped my hand. I pulled her up slowly, and she struggled to find her balance on one foot. She very nearly did not succeed, and fell forward into me. She gasped as she pulled away in shocked horror. "Sorry!" she cried. "I... sorry."

I smiled, understanding very little of what she said to me. But it was enough. "Sorry," I repeated.

She looked up at me. For the first time, I saw her clearly. She was not a child, perhaps thirty-five years of age, with dark hair and eyes. Her features were distinctly Japanese, and a spark of hope flickered somewhere inside of me. "Nihongo ga hanasemasu ka?"

Her eyes lit up. "Hai," she answered.

Surprised and elated to hear my native tongue, I smiled broadly and bowed in greeting. "I am Hamato Yoshi," I introduced.

She gripped my shoulder for support. "My name is Sakura," she answered. "And I do not mean to be impolite, but I am afraid I might fall if I attempt to bow."

I laughed quietly. "It is okay. I understand."

She attempted to put weight on her ankle, and recoiled in pain. "You are hurt," I observed.

"Hai," she answered. "And so are you." I glanced for the first time at my arm, and saw the bullet wound. "You should go to the hospital," she advised.

I sighed. "I have no money to afford such treatment."

"Nor do I," she agreed. "But perhaps we could help each other."

I smiled. "Hai. Help." She laughed quietly, but said nothing. I studied her for a moment. "Is there somewhere I can take you?" I asked. "Do you have family here?"

"Iie," she whispered. "I have no family. And I have no home."

"Where do you stay?"

"Wherever I can find shelter."

I considered the options before me. "I have no house to speak of," I informed. "But you are more than welcome to come with me, to my place of shelter."

Her eyes fell. "You are too kind, Hamato-san."

"Nonsense," I assured her. "I would be honored."

SAKURA:

"I wish to thank you, Hamato-san," I whispered as I dabbed lightly at the blood trickling from his arm. "You saved my life."

"You need not thank me," he assured quietly.

I looked up at the face of my rescuer. He was older than I, but I didn't think him much older. His dark eyes danced with life, and his muscled arms spoke of his strength. I in no way considered him old. He was probably much younger at heart than I was. I chuckled at the thought. In my years, I had seen more than most people saw in a lifetime.

I wondered how he had gotten here, from Japan. He spoke no English, so he must have just arrived. Likely, he came here illegally. I was in no position to judge his reasons for coming to this country.

"You should be okay," I informed him. "The bullet is not lodged; it went out the other side of your arm. Just try and rest for the next few days."

He studied me carefully. "You are welcome to stay," he invited.

I smiled faintly and hung my head. My dark hair fell like a curtain in front of my eyes. "I am most grateful to you," I whispered. "I would not wish to impose on you further."

He considered that for a moment, and I peeked through my hair at him. "For as long as I am wounded, I could very much use your help," he informed me. "And after I am healed, we can discuss a further course of action."

I stared at him. I knew full well that his wound would not greatly impair him, and he was probably just as aware of that fact. I did not like accepting charity. There was almost always strings attached. But his proposition was reasonable. I nodded. "Very well, then," I accepted. "I will stay until you are healed."

He smiled. "Good."