A/N – Another RK/Last Samurai crossover. Captain Algren is introduced to Katsura.

Disclaimer – I own neither Ruroken nor the Last Samurai. Don't sue.

Introductions

The heat was stifling. Katsura chafed in his Western-style clothes, the tight coat and trousers confining and uncomfortable. He hated these formal receptions, bowing and smiling at gai-jin come to marvel at the Asian country who dared aspire to "civilisation". Still, just as he had smiled at their condescension and taken their money and guns during the Revolution, he would smile at them now and take their technical knowledge and expertise.

They may think what they please, he had told Katsumoto once. One day we will be strong enough that we no longer need them.

"…Ah, Katsura-sama," an oily voice spoke, and Katsura turned to see Omura bearing down on him, smiling with false bonhomie, two unfamiliar gai-jin and the Englishman, Graham, in tow. "May I introduce you to two guests who have come a very long way to lend us their expertise."

Katsura bowed slightly, shook their hands, his eye going from the tall, fair gai-jin – Colonel Bagley, with the cold eyes of a born politician – to the shorter, bearded dark one, angry, resentful, and contemptuous. Captain Algren, of penny-dreadful fame, who seemed to hate his reputation and all those who would trade on it, himself included.

"And, of course, you remember Mr. Graham, the English interpreter."

By the look on the Englishman's face, Mr Graham most certainly remembered him. A scholarly, wide-eyed innocent among the cutthroat politics of the Bakumatsu, in love with all things Japanese, Graham had been disastrously frank in his dealings with both sides, to the point where he soon found himself running for his life.

Katsura, unaccountably fond of the little round man, had sent Himura to aid him.

The tall American colonel spoke, his strange blue eyes steady, his voice confident.

"Colonel Bagley wishes to reassure you," Omura translated, radiating satisfaction, "that with his and Captain Algren's expert training, our own Imperial army will soon be strong enough to crush Katsumoto's uprising."

Katsura let his eyes drift to the Englishman, who was suddenly looking uncomfortable. For two long months, as he hid among the Ishin Shishi, the interpreter had taught Katsura to speak some English – certainly enough to understand that the American had just promised to crush not Katsumoto's uprising, but the samurai's.

Still, he only bowed politely and murmured pleasantries in return, revealing nothing of his thoughts. The Americans were Omura's creatures, and Omura had come to power not through the chaos of the Bakumatsu, but through headlong modernisation, commercial development and sheer avarice.

Twenty years ago Katsura would have cut him down on principle, despising everything he represented. He was older, now, perhaps wiser, more versed in compromise and political expediency. Katsumoto's rebellion was doomed, serving only to hasten the end he sought to avert, and Katsura would not aid him in his reckless folly and be dragged down with him. The world had changed, irrevocably, with the coming of the Black Ships, and there was no way to return to what they once were.

Much later, as the clock ticked away the hours of the early morning, Algren tossed back another glass of whiskey and leafed through Graham's collection of garish, lurid paintings of samurai. Before the whiskey, before the Indian wars, Algren had once been fascinated by other peoples and their differences: these paintings, with their mad, exaggerated ferocity, seemed to show another side of the Japanese he had met since coming here, polite but inscrutable men, formal in their Western dress and manner.

"Tell me about the samurai," he asked Graham, asking for more than a description of their martial prowess, wanting to understand what the Japanese all meant by the word, spoken with respect and awe. "Are they a separate, warrior tribe? Who are their allies?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort," the Englishman said, crossing his hands over his belly. "The samurai as a whole are the ruling warrior caste, the only ones legally allowed to bear arms, whether powerful aristocrats or impoverished, masterless warriors. It was a group of angry, disaffected samurai who, infuriated by the Shogun's weak response to Western incursions, overthrew the Shogun and put the Emperor on the throne. Katsumoto, the leader of the rebellion, was one of architects of the Revolution."

Algren grimaced. "And now Katsumoto is rebelling against the Emperor because he is treating too closely with the Western powers."

"Er, yes," Graham conceded. "You could put it that way."

"You say that Katsumoto was one of the Emperor's closest councillors. How many of the others were Katsumoto's comrades? Are they likely to join him in rebellion?"

For a moment, the Englishman's face was lit by a flash of wicked humour. "Well, if nothing else, you may be sure Omura is not likely to join him." But then he sobered. "A number of Katsumoto's less influential allies on the council have already joined him. But of the men closest to the Emperor, only Okubo and Katsura were as powerful as Katsumoto. They, too, were powerful figures during the Revolution. Okubo will not fight, though, because he has too much invested in this new era, and Katsura…" He trailed off, his eyes darkening as though in memory. "Katsura hung up his sword years ago. He keeps his hands clean, so that others may fight for him."

Algren frowned, remembering the pleasant, inscrutable councillor who had greeted them, if not warmly, then at least politely, and then conversed for a few moments before wishing them well and moving on. There had been nothing to show that he was once a revolutionary, a veteran of vicious feuding, in-fighting, and open war. He had not been in any way fierce or warrior-like.

But nor had he been anything like Omura, whose power was in his wealth.

Sitting up, Graham reached out to leaf through the paintings, sorting through them until he unearthed a terrifying shadowy figure drenched in crimson blood, with eyes like burning flame. "No," the Englishman murmured, as it to himself, a private memory. "Katsura has not drawn steel for more than fifteen years. There has been no need."

But when Algren wished to know more, intrigued, Graham would not be drawn, merely shaking his head and announcing that he was ready to retire. Bidding Algren a good night, the Englishman left him sitting there, by the fire, thinking on the nature of samurai, power, and the significance of the bloody shadow figure in the painting.