A/N – Thanks to Crystal-Snowflakes, Fflur, Labeled Insane, Loise, Katrinka, Jewelle2 and t.a.g.o for your comments.

Just a reminder: The rebels aren't fighting the Tokugawa regime from the 1860s. In this story, the revolution/civil war weakened the country so much that in 1868, Japan fell to the West. After 80 years as a colony, they finally gained their independence in 1948 after 3 years of rebellion against the colonial administration. The first leader of the newly independent Japan was the rebel leader, who, to give himself more credibility, took Tokugawa as his nom de guerre. His rule proved disastrous, and in 1953 (1853 saw Commodore Perry's arrival) another rebellion began, led by the province of Choshu. Toba Fushimi was 1967.

Disclaimer – Rurouni Kenshin is the property of Watsuki-san and associated others.

The Return Chapter 2

Saitou Hajime watched the small, redheaded man walk away, his fake smile and mild eyes firmly in place. He remembered all too well the faceless shadow-killer of the Bakumatsu, the unseen wraith who had caused such chaos and terror with his old-fashioned weapons. There had been no photographs of him, no witness statements, no clue of who or what the shadow assassin was except men killed with almost surgical skill and the ever-present, anonymous statement of Tenchuu.

And that…mockery of a man was Battousai?

Himura Kenshin. A false name, on a forged certificate, registered in 1968 and signed by one of Katsura Kogoro's flunkies. He'd been Katsura's creature, of course, his weapon, unleashed on those who would not yield to his diplomacy.

Battousai must have been a child when Katsura recruited him – or Takasugi did, the wild-eyed, charismatic zealot – but at least, once he gained power, Katsura had protected his former hitokiri. His details had been buried so deep Saitou would never have found them if Okubo hadn't handed them to him personally.

Katsura was dead, and so was his promise that Battousai would never be called on again…

Very soon, they would all see what remained of the hitokiri, beneath the foolish mask.

Saitou's parting comment haunted him as he slipped silently and invisibly through the streets of what had once been Edo. If they were watching him – if, as Saitou said, he had been under surveillance for quite some time – then he would shake them off. No matter how good his watchers were, he was better; no one knew the shadows so intimately as a shadow killer.

The fading twilight was deceptive, shifting shadows and rising mist playing havoc with visibility. Kenshin made sure that he could pinpoint all six of his tails before he stepped casually into an alley and took to his heels. Muffled curses and whispered exclamations followed him, before the hunters remembered their discipline and organized themselves.

Lying pressed flat against a rooftop right above them, Kenshin watched as they split up into pairs to search the area, maintaining constant radio contact. Despite the situation, he found himself nodding in approval – the lessons of the Bakumatsu had been well learned. Before the bloody urban battles that had made Kyoto into a war zone, Japan had been unprepared for urban terrorism and street fighting on such a huge scale. During the early days in Kyoto, six policemen would have gone off individually to search, and he, the silent killer, would have picked them off, one by one by one, without raising an alarm.

Eventually the Shinsengumi – the elite anti-terrorist unit – was created, and the police and the government troops learned to devise tactics to counter the rebels' advantages. Now, watching the way his followers moved, he knew that an average assassin or gunman would have a hard time eluding their net –

But he was no average assassin.

He was – had been – the deadliest killer of the Bakumatsu. He was not proud of it, but his skills were so much a part of him that there was no need for ego. He knew there were very, very few out there who could ever have matched him, or who could match him now even after he'd lost his edge.

A sword is a weapon. Kenjutsu is the art of killing.

Even in these days of guns and bombs.

There was silence, now, from the watchers – he could feel their ki moving stealthily some blocks away to the west – and, congratulating himself, he jumped lightly down from the roof. Straightening himself up, he stepped out of the alley and back onto the main street, walking as innocently as he could, deliberately scuffing his feet and projecting harmlessness and amiability. Soon, he lost himself in the nighttime crowd and left his followers searching fruitlessly behind him.

It had been some thirteen years since he'd last set foot in this city. Back then, it had been a bustling port, a mixture of traditional Japanese and colonial Western buildings, and it had lacked the old, formal elegance of Kyoto. He hadn't had much time for sightseeing – he'd arrived in the late afternoon, completed his assassination at midnight, and had been on his way back immediately after – but he distinctly recalled that there had been few buildings of more than two or three stories.

Now there were steel and glass skyscrapers, modern business places, banks and hotels crowding into what must be the city centre, all clustered around the ultra-modern steel and glass building of the Tokyo Stock Exchange.

How quickly and closely Japan had once more become entwined with the West, in the thirty years since they had thrown off its yoke. Aid, foreign investment, tourism – for all of these and more, the Meiji government had whitewashed its terrorist past, casting off veterans who could not adapt to the new era, eliminating those who would not…

Kenshin turned away from the future, wandering aimlessly, until he heard the unmistakable rhythmic sounds of clacking shinai and the thump of deliberate footwork, and found himself face to face with a sign advertising the Kamiya Dojo, home of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu.

Kamiya Kaoru, assistant master of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu, watched her one, single student go through his kata. Briefly, she thought of the days when her father had been the master, and there had been many students willing and eager to learn from him –

But those days were long gone. Her father had left to fight with Saigo Takamori and had never returned, and now she was left with an empty dojo, an all but student-less school, and her father's ideals. Happily, she owned the dojo outright – she was spared the added worry of a mountain of debts and mortgages. There would have been no way to pay them: teaching kendo was simply not profitable these days. Moreover, the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu was not one of the more traditional, well-known kendo schools either – it was obscure and unusual and hardly anybody had ever heard of it.

However, at the moment, she did have a student and she would give him the benefit of her full attention and time.

"Yahiko!" she scolded, "you're following the stroke through past the finish point. You can't afford to be that sloppy in a real fight."

Yahiko scowled fiercely at her. "I know that, ugly! But I've done nearly nine hundred of these in a row – my arms are getting tired."

Kaoru glowered at him. "That's no excuse. If you want I can give you a thousand more."

The situation looked set to deteriorate into the usual round of insults and name-calling, until Kaoru and Yahiko became aware that there was another presence in the dojo. Kaoru tensed, and Yahiko squared up to the shadow and took a guard position. Kaoru noted – with absent pride – that his form was perfect; but she stepped in front of him and called out to the unknown presence.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Maa, maa," spoke a cheerful, laughing voice. "I'm sorry, but I saw the sign and I heard you training; it has been a while since I have been in a real dojo."

As she watched, the voice's owner came out of the shadows, a small, red haired man smiling amiably, holding his arms out to show that he had no weapons, and he meant no harm.

"You practice kendo?" Yahiko asked doubtfully, having pushed his way clear of Kaoru. "You don't look like you do," he said with his usual tact.

However, Kaoru looked further, and saw that although he had his arms out to his sides, he did indeed have a weapon – he was dressed in dusty grey-black pants and shirt, with a long concealing coat, but the coat fell irregularly on his left side, outlining a long, slim object…

A sword?

"I had some skill once," he said self-deprecatingly, with a sad, sweet smile, "a long time ago."

Yahiko lost interest in the stranger, not looking any further than the humble manner and the old, battered clothing. He went back to his strokes, leaving Kaoru alone with the stranger, who watched Yahiko's form through absently narrowed eyes.

"He's just a little off-balance, isn't he?" Kaoru said conversationally.

Just before he nodded in agreement, the stranger caught himself up with a comical sound and widened eyes. "Oro?"

"Who are you?" she demanded. "You're a skilled swordsman, I'd swear it, but I thought I knew all the best kendo practitioners in Japan. And why do you carry a sword?"

In the face of her suspicious scowl, the stranger abandoned the foolish act, lowering his head and veiling his eyes with his hair. "Himura Kenshin," he introduced himself humbly. "I am a wanderer, nothing more."

"A wanderer with a sword," she said flatly.

He would not meet her eyes. "Hai. That is so."

It was not in Kaoru to be needlessly cruel, especially to those who had no defenses of their own. She could sense the vulnerability in this Himura Kenshin, and cursed the soft heart and impulsiveness that so often led her into trouble.

"I am Kamiya Kaoru," she said, a peace offering. "I'm the assistant master of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu, and the owner of this dojo." She paused, cursing herself, but knew that she would do it anyway. "You look like you need a place to stay."

His eyes widened, and for the first time met hers squarely. They were an improbable violet, but she saw no malice in them, no greed or ugliness, only an ancient and terrible grief. He protested, of course, but Kaoru was stubborn and eventually won him over. She informed Yahiko, who replied with a grunt and a scowl, before turning back to his practice, and then took her new house-guest to see his new room.

Just before she left him at his door, bedding at his feet, she could not resist one last question, half in jest. "Himura-san? Your sword – have you ever killed anyone with it?" Perhaps she was just ensuring that he was not a cold-blooded murderer, come to murder herself and Yahiko in their sleep.

She thought she saw his eyes flicker. But he only unbuttoned the long, enveloping coat, revealing a (a katana! A real katana) attached to his belt. He drew it, still sheathed, and extended it to her hilt first. She frowned, puzzled by the odd wrongness of the sheath, and then, drawing it part of the way free, realized –

"The blade is reversed!" she exclaimed, puzzled. "The sharp edge is on the wrong side…"

"Yes," he said, subdued. "It is not a killing blade. I have never killed anyone with this sword."

She did not comment on the strange wording of that statement. Her new houseguest was strange enough as it was. "Then why do you carry it?"

But, occupied by resheathing and replacing the blade at his waist, he did not answer her.

She did not press the issue.