Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Spirit of Hope

Wailing sirens passing them by, Hiroshi and the blinded demon slowly made their way down the sidewalk. For much of their journey, they had walked in companionable silence, but when the aroma of pork broth inundated the air, he found a reason to speak again.

"We're almost there," he assured, "We'll flush out your eyes and figure out what to do from there."

The demon nodded.

Soon they approached the ramen stand, its paper lanterns a welcome sight.

"Pops!" Hiroshi called out, using his foot to push down the kickstand on his bicycle before he let it go.

"Hiroshi?!" an older man yelled back and fled from behind the counter to the front of the stand. "Where have you been? I was worried. The police…" His voice dried up, his wide-eyed gaze on the demon.

"Can you excuse all our customers?" he asked quietly, nodding towards his companion. "He needs our help."

His father stood frozen, his eyes transfixed.

"Pops?"

"Yeah," he agreed absently, still captivated.

"Pops!"

"Yeah," he repeated, snapping out of it, "Got it."

Clapping his hands together as if in prayer, he spun around and approached the guests sitting at the counter enjoying their meals. With copious bowing, he ushered them along, comping their orders with every apology. Shrugging into their jackets, they left without complaint, shuffling off into the chaotic night.

His hand leaving the security of Hiroshi's forearm, the demon walked forward. The two men watched him.

"The ramen stand?" he asked as he neared the counter, his head brushing against the cloth banners that hung from the eave.

"Yeah," Hiroshi replied, joining him.

"I recognize the sound of your meal preparations," he said, his head tilting towards the bubbling trays of toppings. "Your tribute was worthy."

"High praise," his father grinned. "Next time you need to try our breaded cutlets."

"Pops…" Hiroshi said tiredly.

"Sorry."

"Can you make sure that no one else comes by for service?"

"Of course."

"Come this way," he said to the demon, letting him follow his voice. "There's a little more privacy in the back. We need to flush out your eyes and probably strip you out of that tunic."

With a nod, he followed, heading around the front counter and to the rear where the noodles were prepped.

Grabbing a pitcher, Hiroshi began to fill it with warm water. "Normally I'd let you sit on a stool, but you're tall enough where I'm not sure I could—"

"The floor is acceptable," he interrupted. "You may take these."

Surprised, he turned to find his coat, the tunic, and a Kevlar vest. Folded neatly and piled on top of each other, they were balanced on the demon's palm and forearm as he held them out to him. Looking past the offered items, he realized that the man was even more intimidating without a shirt. Then he noticed the blotchy rashes that mottled his skin. He had only seen the redness on his face earlier, but in the better light, he could see that it ran down his neck and chest through his abdomen.

"I cannot see where you would like to store these, so you must take them."

"I'm sorry," Hiroshi apologized, and accepted the clothing.

"Would you like me to sit here?"

"Yeah, there's fine," he replied as he set the clothing onto the counter.

Carefully, the demon crouched down to sit on the floor, resting his back against the cabinet doors behind him.

Carrying the pitcher, Hiroshi knelt beside him. "Tilt your head back," he directed, "And look up."

He nodded and did as requested.

Veiled by stoicism and courtesy, he hadn't noticed the pain etched across the demon's face, but now that he was up close, it was all that he could see. In his clenched jaw and gritted teeth. In the tears that seeped from his bloodshot eyes. "Don't worry," he assured. "You'll feel better soon. I've had a little practice, remember?"

A smile hinted at his expression. "I remember."

And the water poured from the spout, flowing generously over his open eyes before cascading down his cheeks and drenching his upper body. Fists clenched, a soft growl rumbled in his chest, and the stream of water quavered as Hiroshi's hand began to tremble. Something primal urged him to run. To flee as if he were alone in a dark forest. And it was everything he could do to not give in to the impulse. Then the water was gone, ending in a trickle.

The growl died.

"I'll get some more water," he said as he shakily rose to his feet.

"Why did you say that I was family earlier?" the demon asked.

"What?" he replied, turning on the faucet. Water streamed into the pitcher.

"When you were convincing me to accompany you earlier. You refused to leave and vowed to protect me as I have protected you. You said it was because we were family."

"We are, in a sense," he said, turning off the faucet. Water brimmed at the rim of the pitcher, and he poured some out. "You changed our lives."

"You drove off those yakuza bastards!" his father piped up, leaning against the plastic shielding on the customer side of the counter. "You shamed them. Humiliated them. Even when the police came, they had nothing to say that wasn't blubbered through sobbing tears." He spat. "For once, they were the beggars, whining about mercy. But also, afraid to reveal why. Those cops never did figure out how a car that overturned halfway down the block ended up back here in front of the stand. Nobody saw anything, especially the driver. They were scared to talk just like we were before. When they were the ones who threatened us."

"Pops…"

"He should know what he means to us. To the people in this neighborhood. To the people in this community. Tokyo, the beautiful and modern city that she is, forgets who built her foundations and still toil there now. The ones who have been brushed aside and forgotten. But the yakuza, they haven't forgotten us. We were their prey, but not anymore."

"Pops…"

"Quiet, Hiroshi," he scolded, then he turned his attention back to the demon, his eyes hard. "There's a reason why they call you The Demon of Namidabashi. Why you're named after a place infamous for barbaric executions and violence. Why you're named after a place where the poor and nameless were tortured for the satisfaction of the rich and powerful. You're our spirit of vengeance."

"Pops, please go watch the front of the stand."

"All right. I'm done." He waved a dismissive hand and disappeared.

With the pitcher in hand, he knelt beside the demon again. "I'm sorry about that."

"Is that what I represent to humanity? A spirit of vengeance?"

Hiroshi gently touched the demon's forehead, and he tilted his head and looked up, ready for the next flush.

"For some, I guess," he explained, and the water flowed, "My father has never had hope before. At least not like this. He grew up here and worked hard to scrape together enough money to start this ramen stand. And when it looked like it might be a success, the yakuza came and demanded their cut. For my entire life, that was the routine. But the day you defended us changed that. The profit that they skimmed every week will make this place debt free in a year. If that happens, then my siblings will have the chance to go to college, and one day, my father will have the chance to retire."

"A spirit who avenges the theft of hope?" he wondered aloud, wincing as the water cleansed. "The one who rectifies it? Is that who I am to you?"

"Maybe."

"I would have accepted that role in the past, but I know now that vengeance is the path of self-destruction. I cannot be that for you. The sacrifice is too great."

"Then maybe it's not the vengeance part that matters," he said, emptying the pitcher. He held it on his lap as he thought. "Maybe it's the our part. What makes you family is that you belong to us. And we belong to you. We're your people and you're not our vengeance but our hope."

"Your hope?"

Climbing to his feet, he headed back to the sink to refill the pitcher. "Yeah, you're our hope."

OOOOOOOOOO

Souta squeezed through the crush of people as they pushed their way onto the train, proving that the courtesy of letting passengers disembark first was a luxury for more civilized times. Narrowly evading the closing doors, he stumbled out onto the crowded station platform and looked around. For so late at night, the place teemed with people, and they exuded a nervous energy that prickled the atmosphere around them. It felt like a desperate need to escape.

Taking advantage of his size, he weaved through the tide of humanity to reach the street outside. And when he made it, he found himself adrift in chaos. Waves of people brushed past him, in a hurry to be anywhere but there. Clogged with traffic, the street itself was at a dead stop with cars bumper-to-bumper, their drivers' faces aglow with smartphone light.

In kind, he retrieved the tablet from his jacket pocket and activated the app. Comparing his position to its map feature, he oriented himself in the direction he wanted to go and slipped the device back into his pocket. Then once again, he fought against the flow as he worked his way down the sidewalk.

Then he froze, pulling the gym bag he carried over his shoulder closer.

Their lights flashing red, police cars crouched next to the curb ahead. Beside them, officers organized as they set up a checkpoint and began to funnel pedestrians through it, comparing them to a fugitive's description. Keeping his head down, he slipped past them, thankful that their attention was on the flow coming towards them.

Somewhere nearby, a helicopter droned.

The crowd thinned as he continued, and soon a wave of savory aromas filled his nose. Exuding a warm and welcoming glow, an old-fashioned ramen stand sat nestled beside the sidewalk. Out front an older man loitered, pacing back and forth absently.

Souta rechecked his tablet and then put it away. This was the place.

"Sorry, kid," the older man said as he approached. "We're closed for the night."

"I have to go over there," he insisted, pointing to the stand.

The man blocked him with his body. "I'm sorry, I can't let you."

Diving to the side, he tried to evade him, but he was faster than he looked and caught him by the arm.

"Let me go!" Souta growled.

"I can't let you go over there, kid."

"He's here!" he yelled, his eyes bright with determination. "I know that he's here. So, let me go. He needs me."

Stunned, the man released him.

Not wasting a moment, Souta slipped past him and ran for the stand.

He had sworn to Sesshoumaru that if he was in trouble, that he would come and rescue him.

Rounding the front counter, he went inside.

It was his duty. He was the only one with the responsibility. With the privilege.

And then, he saw him on the floor, the embodiment of misery sitting in a puddle of water. The gym bag fell.

"Souta," Sesshoumaru said softly, and the agony that tightened his expression grew.

Suddenly, Souta's body was rushing forward, not waiting for his mind to catch up. He crushed into the daiyoukai, his arms wrapping around him as he buried his face into his neck. Sobs shuddered his body, causing him to press in even closer and to hold on even tighter. This time he wasn't going to let him go.

Then he felt the warmth of strong arms hugging him in return, and it broke and healed him at the same time.

"You were supposed to be careful," Souta mumbled, his voice as wet as his face.

"I know."

"This was supposed to be a normal night."

"I know."

"I was scared."

"I'm sorry."

His sobs quieted until there was only the occasional sniffle.

"I brought you your bag," he said, his breathing smoothing out.

"You knew about that?" Sesshoumaru asked.

"Of course, I did. You're my brother." He smiled. "And you're terrible at hiding stuff. Worse than me."

He chuckled hoarsely.

"You sound awful and look worse."

"It's evidently called tear gas, and it's very unpleasant."

Getting his feet underneath him, Souta leaned back to look at his face. Tears threatened to flow again as he poured over him, taking in the pain. He kept it down though. He'd cried enough. His gaze gravitated to the unfocused look in his eyes.

Sensing his concern, Sesshoumaru answered the question before it could be asked. "It has blinded me. Temporarily." He nodded towards the young man kneeling beside them. "These kind people have flushed my eyes, but the effects have yet to wear off."

"I was wondering why you were all wet," he said, and then looked at the young man. "Thank you."

"It was our honor." The man replied. "I'm Hiroshi."

"Wait… Is this the pork cutlet ramen place?"

"Yes!" the older man shouted. "You should try our breaded cutlets. They're even better."

Sesshoumaru sat up, letting Souta go. "We should head home. Bring me my bag."

The boy nodded, and he straightened up to stand. Unzipping the bag where it had dropped, he pulled out fresh clothes for him to wear. The daiyoukai was already stripping off his pants when he returned, and he handed him his clothing one item at a time until he had redressed himself. With Hiroshi's help, he packed the soiled costume into the bag.

"Ready?" Souta asked, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

"Yes," Sesshoumaru agreed, and he turned to Hiroshi, nodding a bow. "Thank you."

"Of course," he replied, bowing in return. Then he hesitated. "You mean more to the people here than you think, and in more ways than you know."

He paused, considering him. "Thank you."

"Here," the older man offered, holding out a paper bag filled with ramen orders. "For you both."

Graciously, Souta accepted it. Cradling the takeout in one arm, he reached out for Sesshoumaru's hand, and together they left the stand and disappeared down the sidewalk.

"Pops."

"Yeah?"

"To be a spirit of vengeance. When he said that the sacrifice was too great, he didn't mean for himself, did he?"

His father clasped him on the shoulder, gave him a gentle shake, and then started packing up the steamer trays.