A/N – This chapter introduces Shishio, because he's so wonderfully, megalomaniacally evil. And because I love Soujiro.

Also, because Nondescript White Van mentioned it and because it tickled my fancy immensely, I have included Sano-with-a-'fro. All complaints and outrage should be sent (her?) way, not mine.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

Chapter 4

"Ne, Shishio-san," the young, smiling killer said. "Why are you smiling?"

His face scarred, twisted, and horribly burned, Shishio Makoto smiled grotesquely. "Hitokiri Battousai has come back to Japan, Souji. He was spotted at Narita airport, before he disappeared into Tokyo."

"Hitokiri Battousai?" Seta Soujiro did not doubt Shishio's network of informants, which reached into the very highest levels of government officialdom. "All the stories say he vanished after Toba Fushimi. I'd always assumed the Meiji government…" he trailed off, tactfully not finishing the sentence.

"No, my predecessor managed to escape my fate. He fled, became a rurouni, not connected to anyone in the government – until Okubo and Yamagata confronted him."

"Did they manage to recruit him, Shishio-san?" There was eagerness in Soujiro's voice, the arrogance of a young swordsman excited by the thought of facing a legend. "Will he come against us?"

"They did not succeed in their first meeting." The muscles in Shishio's face contorted in another smile. "But either they will convince him, or we will – sooner or later, Battousai will be persuaded to oppose us. And then, when we destroy the Meiji government's last and greatest hope…"

The fierce, burning anticipation in Shishio's eyes was terrible to behold. For years, since his own masters had betrayed him, he had been biding his time, waiting for revenge. Soon, very soon, his time would come…

He had only intended to stay the night. Long experience had taught him that it was best to keep moving, never stay in one spot for too long – even outside Japan, in places where nobody had ever heard of hitokiri Battousai, he seemed to draw trouble like a magnet.

He smelled too much of blood, even after eleven years. In this world of violence, turmoil and war, there were far too many who could recognize it –

Even without Saitou's warning, Yamagata had been too desperate to secure his loyalty.

However, Kaoru-dono (unconsciously, he gave her the honorifics he denied the highest government ministers) was hard to deny. Despite his misgivings, he had been persuaded to stay longer – one night had stretched into two nights, and two nights and a day until now, two weeks after his arrival…

There was a small, run down garden behind the house: white sand, crushed gravel, a small pool with two or three old carp, and a stunted sakura tree. The morning air was cold, clear, and gloriously still, and if he closed his eyes and concentrated, blocking out the faint sounds of construction and traffic, he could almost imagine himself back on the mountain with his shishou.

Back to a time before death, chaos and blood.

It was a good place, this household. The founding principles of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryu were not just words to them, as he had seen in other dojos in his time – here, they truly believed that a sword could protect life and foster potential.

Small, padding footsteps sounded from within the house. Kenshin controlled the automatic reaction to anyone coming up behind him, and let the boy approach him and stand by his side.

"Kenshin?" Yahiko yawned, his hair still wild and disheveled. "What are you doing up so early?"

"It is seven-thirty, Yahiko," he answered, as blandly as he could.

"Like I said," Yahiko grinned widely. "Early."

Kenshin shook his head, smiling. That even a poor orphan like Yahiko had the freedom to sleep late, because he was on holidays from school – that he could go to school at all – was one of the wonders of this new era. When he himself had been eleven years old…

Well, that was another time, another world.

"I'm used to rising with the sun," he said, turning his face up and smiling. "I've made breakfast for you and Kaoru-dono."

Yahiko looked at him dubiously. In many ways, he was worldlier than Kaoru-dono; he'd never said anything about his past, but Kenshin suspected that violence and tragedy lay in his past, behind that boyish bravado and fierce black eyes. Kaoru-dono had seen him as a swordsman immediately, because that was where her particular expertise lay –

After a few days, Yahiko had seen him as a killer. And that was what made Kenshin worry about his past…

"It's almost like you enjoy doing housework, Kenshin," the boy said, probing. But Kenshin only smiled, that rueful, self-deprecating grin that had served him so well for so long.

"Ah, well," he said, scratching his head and laughing. "There are worse things."

After breakfast, Kaoru-dono went out to teach at another dojo across town, and Yahiko retired to their own dojo with his bokken for his daily exercises. Sitting idly, watching him repeat the fundamental moves over and over again, Kenshin remembered his own days of endless, driven practice and boundless, stubborn determination.

Gods, he must have been painfully naïve…

The Western overlords had stripped the samurai of their arms, suppressing the largest, most popular schools of swordsmanship, and the advent of guns and modern artillery had rendered traditional weapons obsolete. But there were some parts of Japan where modernization and the twentieth century held little sway – in the small, farming village that was Kenshin's birthplace, there was very little difference between this century and the last three.

Subsistence farming, cholera, slavers and bandits and a huge, white caped master swordsman; these were the formational elements of his youth. He'd known hunger, fear and hardship, but he'd never been to a town larger than one hundred people. He'd known of poverty, violence and oppression but he'd never seen an automobile, or watched a movie, and he knew nothing of the details of the world beyond his shishou's mountain.

Like Yahiko, the sword had given him a sense of identity. Unlike Yahiko, he'd known very, very little about the practicalities of using that sword in the modern world…

A bright, brash ki and a cheerful shout of "Oi!" drew his attention to the arrival of a stranger at the dojo gates. He stood up swiftly, hand falling automatically to his sakabatou, but Yahiko threw down his bokken and shouted exuberantly.

"Sano!" he cried, running out to greet the newcomer. "I haven't seen you around for weeks! Did you get a job or something?"

That last was sneered, and Kenshin noted the cocky stance, the puffed-out chest. So, Yahiko admired this Sano, did he? And would die before he let the man know it.

"A job!" 'Sano' sputtered, his voice outraged. "Why, you…" Growling and the sounds of a scuffle followed, and Kenshin finally got a good look at the stranger.

A street tough. A bravo.

Tall, thin, proudly wearing an ancient, tattered jacket and too-short pants, he had bandages wrapped around his hands – a bare-knuckle brawler, then – and a most unusual hairstyle. Kenshin had seen hairstyles like that on black men and boys in American TV shows, and they had all walked with the same swagger, the same sense of 'cool'. He only hoped that this Sano had not copied their way of speech…

Finally, Sano managed to tuck Yahiko under his arm and rub his knuckles unmercifully over the boy's head. "I've been hiding out," he sneered proudly. "Lost a bit too much money to the wrong guys – it took tracking down their leader and pounding him into a pulp to make them see sense."

He looked up, grinning, and saw Kenshin. Immediately he stiffened, his arm tightening protectively around Yahiko, who sputtered and swore and then, scowling, wriggled hard enough that Sano set him on his feet.

"SA-no!" he growled, tugging furiously at his clothes to set them right. "This is Kenshin. Himura Kenshin. He's staying with us for a little while."

"Himura Kenshin, eh?" Sharp, insolent dark eyes studied him with outright suspicion. Kenshin did his best to look harmless, but there was only so much he could do to negate the black-sheathed sword by his side.

Reading the tension and the suspicion, Yahiko jumped in. "Kenshin, this is Sagara Sanosuke, professional loafer and freeloader."

Kenshin put on his goofiest smile and bowed. Sano grunted and only nodded in response, his eyes still watchful, and Kenshin sighed. He had not managed to disarm him.

"Did Jou-chan invite you to stay?" Sano asked.

Jou-chan? Oh.

"Yes," he said, still smiling foolishly. "Kaoru-dono was gracious enough to let me stay. Did you want to talk to her? She's gone to the Maekawa dojo. Please, come in and wait until she returns – I will make lunch for us."

As he'd thought, the thought of food – and of keeping an eye on him – slightly mollified the hotheaded, too skinny brawler. "I'll wait until Jou-chan comes back," he said with magnificent condescension, "and then I'll have a talk with her about letting perfect strangers armed with swords stay at her house." He sauntered past Kenshin and Yahiko into the house, hands shoved deeply into his pockets.

Kenshin watched him go, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the faded kanji on the back of his jacket.

A/N – Thanks to all those who reviewed the previous chapters. Feedback of all kinds is greatly appreciated.