"Do you not think we have better fucking things to do?"

The other Okita—Souji, who was discreetly babied by several of his comrades—shrugged at his fukuchou dismissively. "If their guy really is like our Kondō-san, then they should have equivalent sword skills, right?"

Tōshirō gave him a hard look. What he really meant was, they ought both share the same ryū. They looked different, and they spoke differently—who was to say they wouldn't fight differently as well? It would be a rather quick way to prove a point, but the risk hardly seemed worth it. Tōshirō had no doubts that Kondō-san could handle this Isami, but if they didn't have the same fighting style. . . .

Toshizō didn't like the idea either. "You're always the one berating me for putting Kondō-san in harm's way, Souji. I can't say I'm pleased that you, of all people, would suggest this."

"I have faith in my kyokuchou," he said simply, before heaving himself off the floor. "Come on. I'll round up the others."

"Others," said Tōshirō, "what others?"

"The other captains. We'll be having a little show in the training room shortly."

Several protests mounted, but Souji had already fled on his mission. While Toshizō fumed silently, Isami stood and held out his hand. "I don't mind, if you'll consent, Isao-san."

Tentatively, he took it and pulled himself up. "Do I have a choice?"

"Certainly, you have a choice. You always have a choice here."

Kondō-san shook his head, and something in his expression made Tōshirō sad. "I don't like my guys being looked down on," he said softly. "As long as we're here, I want us to be recognized for the men we are. On our own merit. If this is the only way to get your people to believe in us, I'll do it."

Damn. Sometimes he could choose some heavy fucking words. One look at Sougo and Yamazaki suggested they were thinking the same thing.

"Don't pressure yourself like that," Isami said, frowning. "We won't send you to your deaths if you can't keep up. Just do your best."

"Okay, but—" he poked at Isami's chest—"don't cry if I beat you."

Harada laughed offhandedly and gripped their shoulders. "Just have a little fun, guys. I think we could all use it." As things stood, they were obviously not believed. Which, for the time being, was fine, and safe, and had gotten them untied. It was probably wicked unwise to show off their sword skills when they had just been evaluated as constituting little threat. But fuck, Souji had sort of backed Hijikata—both of them—into a corner on that one.

"Well, I guess this is my fucking day now." Sighing, Toshizō added under his breath, "Goddamn it."

As they filed out of their "jail", Isami at the head of the line and Toshizō at the end, Tōshirō slowed his pace to distance them from the others. "Toshizō-kun."

"Mn."

Hah, he let me get away with that. "What'll you tell those other captains if our Kondō does win?"

"I think you know that's not what this is about."

Touché. "Still. How would you explain that to an audience without context? I mean . . . what if you do end up convinced that we're right?"

"We'll burn that bridge once we get there."

Tōshirō paused. "Don't you mean, we'll cross that bridge once we get there?"

"Keep moving."

They traveled the halls in stiff silence, to the exclusion of Isami, who hummed cheerfully to himself. It's just like home, thought Tōshirō, nitwitted boss-man and all. Maybe this "alternate universe" thing wasn't too far off. He'd really rather pulled it out of his ass—even he thought it was straight-up crazy—but what the hell else could explain this situation? Neither group was lying. Problem was, Tōshirō's group was the only one with the right perspective to be certain of that, and in this world of limited technology, they had few ways of proving that they weren't lying. Hopefully Kondō-san really could convince them of . . . something.

Isami was greeted warmly by his men in the training room. "Morning," said an older fellow, eyes crinkling in a smile.

"Yes, it is morning, isn't it," said Toshizō flatly.

"Ah, come on, Toshi. It's cold outside, but that doesn't mean you have to be, right?"

Another guy, this one wearing absolutely ridiculous accoutrements and barely any shirt, grinned easily at them. "Oi oi, what's all this, Hijikata-san? New recruits? Pages? Are any of them secretly girls? Maybe blondie here—"

Sougo whipped the man's arm aside when he reached out to ruffle his hair. "Touch me again," he said in his deadest tone, "and if I'm feeling generous you lose only the hand."

"Oho! She's a feisty one!"

Tōshirō instantly liked him.

"Nagakura Shinpachi," he said energetically. "Who the hell are you guys?"

"Shinpachi," scolded Toshizō. "This is hardly an appropriate way to speak before knowing who you're speaking to. What if they were hatamoto or—"

"Like I'd care. You know me, everybody's equal."

"Attaboy," Harada muttered. Tōshirō couldn't tell if it was honest praise or sarcastic.

"Shinpachi?" asked Yamazaki.

"Yeah, what?"

"You're Shinpachi?"

"Yeah, you deaf or something?"

Yamazaki gave a sigh of relief. "Susumu is ten times cooler than me, but this guy is infinitely cooler than Shimura." He nodded affirmatively. "I'm back in it, fukuchou. Don't worry about me."

Nagakura grinned quizzically. "So they're new guys, then? Seem awfully friendly with ya already."

"I wouldn't say that," Toshizō hedged.

"We're plenty friendly," said Tōshirō, voice low and all but friendly.

"It's almost lunch, where you guys been all day? Hey, I'm hurt you didn't invite me out, by the way," said Nagakura, sounding partway serious. "Must've been pretty wild, judging from the racket you all made coming in last night."

An unassuming man wearing swords on his right hip pricked up his ears. He stared straight through Tōshirō as if mentally reviewing security footage, seeming to connect the dots between "new guys" and "racket". (How'd he already pinpoint Tōshirō as the de facto head?) But he said nothing, having little else to connect, and rather than ask questions he gingerly tucked his chin behind the scarf at his neck.

Nagakura paid no mind. "You especially, Hijikata-san. Shimabara finally seduce you?" He pounced like a teasing uncle, both index fingers poking at Toshizō's ribs.

He wriggled away and composed himself, crossing his arms. "I was possessed of all my faculties, thank you."

"Don't tell me you were just drinking water all night again," said Harada, brows drawing together with an uncertain smile.

Tōshirō huffed in the judgiest manner he could muster. Toshizō glared lasers.

The little audience was settling into two opposing lines when Souji returned, seating himself smugly beside Toshizō. The silent guy nestled in behind them, prim on his knees. He leaned forward delicately and whispered something to Toshizō, who only shook his head. The man sat back, eyes closed in contemplation. He sure is different.

Souji nodded at Isami, who beamed like a child as he picked up a pair of wooden swords and handed one to Kondō-san. Tōshirō felt a shift in the tone of the room; what had been buzzing with slight unease was now softening. He realized why when he glanced at Kondō, a far-eyed look on his face as he absently twisted his palms around the bokutō as if committing a new sensation to memory.

Goddamn it, you idiot. "Gori-san," said Tōshirō. "Try holding the right end."

The audience's sneers fell just short of snickers as Kondō-san sorted himself out, but Isami, bless him, did nothing to acknowledge the faux pas. They approached each other and performed their ceremonial bows before readying their weapons.

As they dropped into position, they did look remarkably similar.

Kondō's bokutō leapt forward like a snake striking, putting Isami at an immediate disadvantage. The crowd's collective eyes widened, shocked that Kondō did in fact know what he was doing with a sword. Isami quickly regained his balance, but Kondō was already launching another attack; it was met with powerful resistance and a slight twitch of the mouth.

Several tense minutes yielded much back and forth; Isami was really, really good, but the momentum Kondō had stolen at the start of the bout meant he was always ahead by a fraction of a second. As Kondō dodged an artful thrust with an unconcerned yelp, it became obvious that the two of them were . . . playing.

Isami regained his footing after a dodge of his own and raised his sword above his head; when Kondō ducked into a sideways defensive pose, sword aiming low, Isami paused and cocked his head. Kondō waited, one eye narrowed in challenge. Both men were doggedly suppressing all facial expressions, ignoring their audience of tension and held breaths.

It all happened in the same instant. Isami swung his bokutō down, Kondō's swung up with such force that his opponent's weapon flew from his grip, and as Isami fell back on his ass Kondō swung back down, the blade-edge of his wooden sword pressed into Isami's shoulder.

And they broke into the cheesiest Kondō-style grins that Tōshirō had ever seen. Their hands made a hollow clap as Kondō-san, panting and dripping with sweat, offered his palm to help Isami off the floor. They promptly bowed to each other, proclaiming in unison, "Arigatō gozaimashita," before laughingly sharing a sticky bear hug. It wasn't exactly a loss; Isami had clearly set up a test, but Kondō had passed it. He had done right simply by executing his own—and Isami's—favorite move.

Well mother fuck.

A heavy shadow appeared in Tōshirō's periphery, and without so much as a glance he sensed that it was Souji flipping. his. shit.

Then a bokutō was hurtling toward Sougo, but without moving his body or even his eyes he grabbed it midair, just inches from his face. Souji had obviously intended it to shoot straight through his skull. "Get up, runt," was all he could manage to say, molars glued together in his rage.

Sougo looked at Tōshirō for approval, but received only a shake of the head, so he set the weapon gently on the floor in front of him. This only further pissed Souji off, who grabbed the cloth at Sougo's chest and dragged him to standing. The kid's blank face continued to enrage him (admittedly, Tōshirō could relate), so Souji snatched the bokutō off the floor and stuffed it in his hands. Once again Sougo chose to set it down—though much more reluctantly this time.

Souji saw him cracking and took the opening with a bold move: he handed Sougo his own sheathed sword, in a flash drawing Toshizō's weapon for himself.

Nobody said a fucking word.

This wasn't too surprising; short of using physical force, Tōshirō assumed it was impossible to stop Souji when got like this. He also figured Toshizō was interested in how the tama folks would react to his . . . difficult charge.

Sougo held the sheath in his left hand, the right curved around the hilt, but still he hesitated to draw. For him there was a hair's breadth between staying still and exploding. Again he looked to Tōshirō, those huge round eyes as close to pleading as his vacant face allowed. And again, Tōshirō just shook his head.

"Don't."

He said it because he was fukuchou and he had to say it, but relaxed and unblinking, he willed Sougo to understand that he was now free to act independently. Fight back.

Sougo must have understood. Letting out a single quiet, impish laugh, he slid the sword free, the scabbard dropping to his feet. With a near-bloodthirsty grin he held the blade one-handed and balanced above his forearm, forcing a visible chill through the crowd. With live blades now in the mix, there was no room for endurance, or overwhelming power, or a sportsmanlike exchange of moves. It was obvious that Souji was far too emotional to be an effective opponent. And yet knowing that it would be a one-strike fight, Souji also believed he had a trump card.

Idiot.

Absent of the patience for ceremony, Souji lunged, but Sougo knew what was coming. He was able not only to parry Souji's signature move, but the edge of his blade rested firmly below Souji's eye. Sougo sneered and licked his lips, placing the palm of his right hand beneath the blade; Tōshirō saw his left thumb shift around the grip. "Sougo," he barked. "That's enough."

The whole room exhaled with relief when the two of them stood down, blood dribbling from the cut on Souji's cheek. He thrust the hilt of Toshizō's sword in his face, barely waiting long enough for him to take hold before storming off. It was silently sheathed, silently set down. Sougo too sheathed his borrowed blade, and in the absense of its owner, placed it before Toshizō and bowed. "Arigatō gozaimashita." The man nodded his acknowledgement.

Then he stood, facing Tōshirō with a sigh and a click of his tongue. "Well. I guess it's our turn then."

"No." Tōshirō sat, cross-legged and cross-armed, and refused to budge.

"It's only fair, after both pairs went all-out. Wouldn't you say?"

"Isami said we had a choice. My choice is no."

"Why not?"

"Because you won't fight fair."

Toshizō narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "What makes you think that?"

Because I wouldn't either. "I just watched you not try to stop that man, knowing what he could do. You fully expected your dog to kill Sougo."

Toshizō bristled, and for a moment Tōshirō wondered if he'd finally stepped too far out of line. "He's not my dog," said Toshizō, carefully, "or I'd find it worth my breath to attempt controlling him."

"Eh?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Lucky for us, then, that kid's not my dog either."

Toshizō relented, nodding.

So then he knew my protest was just for show. Somehow, Tōshirō refrained from grinning.

I can't fucking wait to fight him.

A/N: According to *a* source I found (in English), the historical Kondō Isami's favorite technique was "ryubi no ken"; Okita Souji was slightly better documented (in English) as polishing a technique called "sandanzuki". Haven't gone deep enough to know if anything like this makes an appearence in either Hakuōki or Gintama, but hey, let's go with the (sketchy) history on this one and give it to both of them. All four of them. Whatever.