Tōshirō came out on deck and breathed in the fresh stink of fish and seawater. It was funny how some things remained completely unchanged between worlds—but there was some culture shock in realizing that it now (again) took days or weeks just to travel the country. Thanks to the Amanto, that same amount of time could get you whole other planets.

He didn't grasp all the whys of their move, nor did he he care to; it was doubtful that relocation would affect his own situation. Until they could piece together the fragments of their arrival, there was no reason to remain lashed to one locale. The move to Edo might even help, since technically that's where he and his men had come from. Might as well explore the world.

But so much was strange about this move—for example, the fact that from his perspective, Souji had long since vanished. Tōshirō hadn't seen him since their first days here. He was aware that Sougo asked after him on occasion, and whatever answers he got seemed to satisfy him. But Tōshirō himself never did find out where Souji had been. He asked Toshizō once, when he was hard at work doing—whatever he did at that writing desk. But the mindless, exasperated response was, "Not your business, Toshizō," which Tōshirō took to mean his brain was beyond fried and it was probably not worth it to press him for semi-important information.

A flash of white in his periphery caught his attention—he was being waved over by Harada, currently on Sougo duty. (Not that Sougo was much of a threat between spates of vomiting his guts out over the edge of the ship.) Tōshirō settled in nearby. "Hey."

"Hey," Harada answered.

"Need something?"

"A bath maybe, but."

"Yeah, sorry. He's always a handful, but I didn't realize it would be like this."

"I don't think he did either."

"Don't talk about me," Sougo said thinly, half his face squished against the planks.

"Shut it, chum bucket." Sougo just groaned and rolled over. "Wow. He's never actually shut up before."

Harada half-smiled to himself. "It's kinda nice that this is our biggest concern right now." He didn't seem to notice Sougo's double middle fingers. "I think the other guys feel a little paralyzed, since there's nothing much we can do while we travel. But I think it's a much-needed reprieve. I wish they'd just accept the downtime and relax."

"How are you all holding up?" Tōshirō asked quietly.

Harada shook his head, lips pursed as he tried to keep himself composed. "Been better."

Good, bad, in-between; Takasugi, and Sakamoto, now even the foundations of the Shinsengumi. . . . "I'm sorry, man."

He shrugged sadly. "It happens." Sougo bolted up and tossed his head over the railing, and Harada absently reached up to rub his back.

"If he felt any better," said Tōshirō, "he'd bite your hand off for that."

"Shinpachi mentioned something along those lines. Though honestly I'd like to see him try," Harada said gently, frowning as he watched Sougo cough. "You okay, kid?" Sougo's answer was to push feebly at his hands and sit back down, face blank and ghostly white and maybe drooling a little.

"You and Nagakura good friends?" asked Tōshirō, though it felt a little underhanded to inquire while Harada was distracted by depression.

"Sure. We were always closer to each other than to the real Shieikan guys."

That answers that, finally. "'Us-versus-them'?"

"Nah, nothing like that. We just came to the party a little late, that's all. We're a bit younger than Isami and Hijikata-san, and a bit older than some of the other captains, too. Souji, and Saitō, and . . . hell. I mean, usually it's easier with guys your own age, but sometimes. . . ." Harada's voice trailed off with his thoughts, and his expression turned even more melancholy. How many friends has he lost already?

"Is Sagaru around?" asked Harada after a stiff silence.

"He's down below with Kondō-san, watching over Isami. Need him for something?"

"No—not really. Just wanted to know how he was doing. Seems like they got kinda close at the end there."

"I guess so. He really admired Susumu."

"That's good. I don't think he gets enough recognition." He nudged Tōshirō. "Both of them, really."

"You're probably right. Sorry."

"I—talked to him about some stuff."

"My Yamazaki?" asked Tōshirō.

"Yeah."

"I noticed. You hang out with him more than Susumu did."

"I mean, I asked him some things that were probably inappropriate."

"He answered?"

"Yeah, but—it was a deal, he may have felt obligated. He asked me something, so I got to ask in return."

"And he answered."

"Yeah."

"Then it's fine. I mean, I assume you're feeling guilty about it, or it wouldn't have come up."

"A little, I guess. Felt wrong not to mention it to you."

"Admit it, you were also sorta curious if he'd get in trouble."

"That goes without saying."

Tōshirō shrugged. "Yamazaki can do or say whatever he wants. He knows how to play his cards."

"Yes he does," Harada said, chuckling quietly. "You folks really trust each other, don't you?"

". . . Do your guys not?"

He sat forward, chin resting in his palm. "We trust each other fine. We have our differences, of course. But you guys . . . I can't put my finger on it. I think it's . . . we don't really have a common cause anymore. We're all so different politically that it's . . . hard to unify us. You guys . . . I don't know what it is, but something binds you. In a way that we're not, I think. It's kind of intimidating."

"Is it?"

"Maybe insulting is a better word. Our leadership is crumbling, right from under our feet. While your guys have been thrown into a pretty much impossible situation, and yet your relationships seem no more strained for it. If Hijikata-san is ever exceptionally short with you, I think that's why. I think he's jealous. He's having a crisis of . . . well, all kinds of crises, honestly."

"Fucking tell me about it."

"Oi." They looked up to find Toshizō leaning coolly against a mast—glaring, of course. "You aren't spilling secrets again, are you, Sanosuke?"

"Oh, come on. They're practically family. Aren't half of them taking care of Kondō-san right now? They even fought with us. Cut me some slack."

Toshizō frowned. With one brow raised he looked down at Sougo, collapsed on the deck all miserable and disheveled like some kind of violated maiden. "You're looking green."

Sougo lifted his head, eyes watering against the need to upchuck. He was swaying stiffly, counter to the pitch and lilt of the ship, which was probably making it worse.

"This doesn't really help your case," Toshizō said.

"What do you m—" He stopped dead for a dry heave or two. Tōshirō smirked.

"How could you possibly travel space if you can't handle a little boat ride?"

"You don't understand," said Tōshirō. Maybe Harada's mothering was to blame, but for some reason Tōshirō felt the need to invite pity for Sougo, of all people. "There's at least some semblance of gravity control in a spaceship. By comparison, this is brutal."

"I'm sure."

Tōshirō shook his head. "One of these days, man."

"'One of these days' what?"

"You don't fucking believe me, I get it, but of these days. You'll see."

"Uh-huh. How's that going to happen?"

"I don't fucking know, but you'll see."

"Why do I even listen to you anymore."

/ / / / /

Settling in Edo was not easy. The fact that Toshizō had to fight for proper accommodations was one of the first signals that things were not going to get any easier just by relocating to a less hostile city. Honestly, shit had only gotten harder. Even before landing they'd made some devastating decisions, suffered losses, fled a properly fortified and perfectly serviceable base (which had been a boon not only in its fortifications, but also in its bolstering of Kondō-san's morale, and therefore that of the rest of the men) in favor of chasing that . . . Hitotsubashi someplace he felt safe. Toshizō tried not to let that get to him but it fucking did, it really did.

The lower-ranked guys rarely looked him in the face, but now they gave him an even wider berth as he patrolled his new headquarters. Recently the men had been avoiding him altogether. Normally that might amuse him, but he didn't want them to follow him on fear alone. It was hard to train men to make the right choices in tough situations that way. If they trusted him, they didn't even need to be trained, they would just naturally make good decisions. Their behavior now was a symptom of lacking trust. Not distrust, but it could easily become so. He was considering how he might remedy this when he glimpsed Tōshirō and Saitō in the kitchen as he passed—

—and felt a tug on his head.

"Tōshirō. . . ."

"Come in here."

"Let go of my fucking hair."

"Dismissed, Saitō," said Tōshirō, "Toshizō-kun will take it from here."

"Let. Go."

"Fukuchou—"

"Saitō, I actually would advise you to vacate, I do not want to unnecessarily involve you in crimes of passion."

"I've been involved in worse."

"Out," he barked. He could have sworn he saw Saitō roll his eyes as he departed—and lucky he was to be Saitō, because anybody else would have been fucking sliced for even the suggestion of an eye roll. Funny how having his hair touched made him instantly insane and why was his hair still being touched. "I'm listening."

"Oh," Tōshirō said, relaxing his grip, apparently having forgotten he had grabbed a dragon by the tail. "Sorry."

"I should have you executed."

"I'm sure your boys would be happy to do it."

"Don't tempt me."

"Saitō should be coming back, you know. . . ."

"What for?"

"My lighter finally gave up, I asked him for matches."

"For fuck's sake. What are you always doing in here with him, anyway?"

"Slavery, disguised as stress relief. He's a real suave manipulator, you know that?"

"I'm vaguely aware." They stared at the floor for a few long seconds, before Toshizō sighed impatiently. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did you need to talk to me or not?"

"Oh. Mostly it's just that seeing you pissed me off so I wanted to return the favor."

"What did I do to you this time."

"It's nothing personal. You don't have any addictions so you can't really understand."

"You think I don't get unnecessarily irritable?"

"We're not really having this argument, are we?"

"Because that's pretty much my signature."

"Yes yes, you're very grumpy, you win. Are you hiding something from me?"

"Has that got something to do with my mood?"

"Total non sequitur."

"Well—why do you ask?"

"Harada mentioned swapping information with Yamazaki. Any ideas?"

"Why don't you just ask your man?"

"It's not his responsibility to tell me your secrets."

"Nor am I obliged."

"I knew there was a reason your face ticked me off so bad. I'm just clairvoyant."

It was then that Saitō leaned into the room, presented a tiny leather bundle, and nodded a salute to Toshizō as he disappeared again.

Tōshirō peeked inside and clicked his tongue, as discontented as if Saitō had handed him a bag of beetles. "What the hell is this." He disdainfully dumped the contents into his palm. "Fuck."

"Looks like a firesteel and flint."

"Yeah. I thought you said you guys had matches."

"There exist matches, but we don't possess any."

"You want me to light cigarettes with this thing. Right near my face."

"You know what, actually, I do."

"Get me a candle."

"Get it yourself."

"A lamp, a stick, kindling. Anything, something I can actually work with."

"Tōshirō, is there some reason you have grabbed my hair again."

"Oh man, my bad. It's just, the withdrawal is really getting to me, you know."

"I'm not telling you again."

"A candle. Now."

Toshizō drew his sword with a quick hiss—

—and cut off his own hair.

Tōshirō blinked sleepily, long locks hanging limp from his fist. "You're kinda on edge, aren't you."

He snatched the nearest goddamn candle and slammed it down on the table. "Might've been more impressive if I could sheathe it again in the same movement like Saitō."

"Trust me, that was impressive enough."

"Been planning to do it anyway."

"Well. Can't say you don't have a flair for drama."

"I deserve to be a bit on edge, don't you think?"

Tōshirō considered him a few long moments, quiet moments, that allowed the harsh events of the past few weeks seep into their thoughts. The losses, the hardships, the crippling inability to pay proper respects. . . .

"Alright, Haku-san." With trembling hands he pulled makeshift rolling papers and a small pouch from his sleeve. He had apparently sworn off his "real" stash but had been so desperate to smoke that he'd been crafting his own cigarettes—filling them with what, no one was sure. "Here's what we're doing."

"Excuse me?"

"I need vinegar, oil, salt, garlic, mustard powder—"

"Gods, again with—"

"—if you've got it, of course. How about, uh . . . bonito?"

"You think you're going to concoct something edible when you can barely handle your precious cigarettes—"

"You just cut off your fucking hair Mulan-style right in front of me, you don't get to lecture me about stress. And eggs. Lots of 'em. We're fucking doing this thing until we get it right."

"What the hell are you making with that shit?"

Tōshirō lifted his chin, wildfire in his eyes. "The nectar of the gods, my friend."

/ / / / /

For weeks now Tōshirō had heard occasional footsteps in the halls at night. He didn't think it strange; there were scores of people living here, hundreds maybe, and such arrangements always yielded the odd few who forgot to take a piss before bed, or needed a midnight snack, or just couldn't sleep and preferred a moonlit walk to calm the nerves.

But bounding through the hallways, toward the soft, distant sound of what might have been screams—that was irregular.

"Oi. Toshizō-kun."

The walls resonated with silence. He lifted his head from the pillow; across the room, Toshizō's futon was empty.

What could possibly have made that bozo abandon his post in the middle of the night? Must be a bigger problem than we are. It had been generally agreed that the tama were unlikely to attempt running away, since, where the fuck would they even go. And with the haku as their only means of recourse in this fairly unfamiliar world, it would be to their own detriment if they lashed out at any of its members, so they hadn't been restrained either. Though if Harada was to be believed, the reasoning was a little softer than that.

Still, for someone like Toshizō—who was a hell of a lot like Tōshirō—to leave a really fucking suspicious person totally unguarded. . . . It might take an all-out catastophe.

I have got to fucking see this.

Tōshirō slipped out of bed and inched to the door, pushing it open enough to peek through. Why he felt compelled to peek first, he wasn't sure, since it was the middle of the goddamn night and the only people he had heard absolutely hoofing it past Toshizō's room clearly had a destination in mind. He cursed under his breath and crept down the hall. The compound was huge and he wasn't sure where they had gone, but he did know where the training room was so he decided to check there first. Upon rounding the last corner he saw Kondō-san and Yamazaki in walking crouches, quietly approaching Sougo, who was already standing at the training room's door. Kondō spotted Tōshirō first and frantically waved him over.

He strode right up to them, since there was obviously no reason to be crouching, and whispered angrily, "Why didn't you guys come get me?"

All three held a finger to their lips; he grumbled and joined Sougo, who casually elbowed him in the gut as they huddled around the edge of the door. He clapped his hands over his mouth to quiet his response to the offense—though honestly he would have had to quiet himself without Sougo's interference.

Several of the captains—including the ones meant to be watching the four of them—spoke in hushed tones, standing among the bloodied bodies of several fallen samurai.

Tōshirō whipped around and started shoving Yamazaki and Kondō away from the door—Kondō-san especially needed to stay innocent of all dirty secrets—and then very suddenly felt hands around his neck.

He managed to choke out, "Sougo, what the fuck—" before he heard a now-familiar low growl.

Uh-oh.

"I'm away for a moment and you're already sneaking about my grounds."

He twisted his head enough to see, yeah, that really was Toshizō and, shit, he was really really strangling him right now. "Tadaima," he croaked.

"Very funny."

He strained his eyeballs in every direction; Sougo had obviously peaced out immediately, but Kondō-san and Yamazaki were also gone. If they were lucky, Toshizō had grabbed him from his position inside the room and hadn't caught a glimpse of the others. Tōshirō was definitely willing to take the bullet on this one.

"I believe you mentioned Sougo just now," Toshizō purred.

Well. It was okay for that little shit to go down with him, at least.

He wasn't being full-on choked but normal speech was still being interrupted quite handily—he was holding his breath on reflex, and was quickly going lightheaded. "Seriously though." He jabbed a finger in the direction of Toshizō's hands. "This—really—sucks."

Tōshirō was let go with a shove, and as he hit the wall in a fit of gasping coughs, he folded himself in half, head between his knees to facilitate the return of circulation to his brain. But hardly five seconds later he was scruffed and tossed at Isami's feet in the training room.

"Watch him," Toshizō commanded, voice stern and quiet. "And get Tōdō the hell out of here. Nagakura," he said, snapping his fingers, "with me."

Isami, supporting his bad arm with the other, gaped at their retreating figures. "Where are you going?"

"On a hunt. We'll return shortly."

So much for these guys not being your dogs. Tōshirō was on his elbows and knees, still recovering from the stealth attack, but the stench of blood was so overpowering he could barely think straight. "Who's Tōdō, is he hurt?" he wondered aloud. Figuring that just existing in this room had ruined his clothes, he rolled onto his back, feeling the squish of bloodied floorboards beneath him. "You guys are gonna need some crime-scene cleanup team." What the fuck happened here . . . ?

He decided it must be safe to look around, if that asshat had been willing to throw him in with his crew. His head lolled to one side, and he saw Harada and Saitō in his blood-reddened scarf, carefully carrying bodies toward the door facing the courtyard.

Tōshirō was far from squeamish. He'd seen blood; he'd killed men; he'd spilled entrails. But this . . . was a whole other level of grotesque. Something was strange about it, he couldn't quite figure out what. The captains themselves had some nicks and cuts, but nothing serious. And the dead—they had only one wound each, a modestly-sized open gash in the center of the chest. How was there so much blood? Everywhere, seeping into everything, suggesting a scene of maniacal abandon—what the hell was here? What had posed such a threat that it warranted a roomful of dead?

And every single one of them. . . .

"Why are they all wearing your haori?"

He snapped his mouth shut a second too late. The three gentlest faces he had met in this universe were now cold and unreadable. That was nothing new for Saitō, but even with the fight over and the danger passed, Isami and Harada had not returned to their usual optimistic selves.

"I, uh . . . only ask, because that's the same design we have on our hankies."

"Fukuchou. . . ."

Now that's a familiar voice, he thought as he rolled toward the door. "Yamazaki, how much of an idiot—"

But it wasn't just Yamazaki.

Draped across his shoulders was another gravely wounded, but very much alive, Yamazaki.

Tōshirō sat, impatiently waiting in the next room as Isami and his bum arm stood watch in the halls. Toshizō probably didn't wish to sit back and field questions while the available captains were spending their night mopping up carnage. But what the fuck.

"Toshizō-kuuun," Tōshirō sang when he appeared in the doorway. "You've got some explaining to doooo."

He sighed heavily. "First this—in my new fucking headquarters, by the way—and now you bastards." He pulled Sougo in behind him, once again bound and gagged. "Sit."

Sougo didn't move, but looked at Tōshirō. "What do you want me to do?" This earned him a dead-eyed glare, so he sighed. "Fine. Toshizō-kun—"

"No."

"What, you didn't tie me up."

"No I did not. You didn't run."

"Nah, but the jig is up, so he's harmless again."

"Let's just leave him for awhile, shall we."

"You are so on my wavelength. Sit down, Sougo."

He still didn't sit.

"I know, I know, I'll pay for it later."

He nodded once and sat contentedly.

Toshizō rolled his eyes. "Can we get on with this? It's a busy night, if you didn't notice."

"One, fuck you. Two—why is your super dead ninja friend currently, actively in the process of dying?"

"He was away on assignment."

"Bullshit. You guys have been depressed as fuck."

"We did also lose one of our captains and oldest friends."

"Then why did you bother lying at all, telling us Susumu was dead?" Toshizō avoided his gaze. "Damn fuckin' straight. Who were those guys you killed? Sorry, no, I meant, why did you just murder a gaggle of your own men."

"They were of a special unit. Prone to . . . losing control."

"Of goddamn sanity?"

Apparently unable to contradict, Toshizō frowned.

"And so they draw themselves up a little bloodbath."

"That's flippant, but yes, that is the risk. Those among them with less fortitude—normally their deviant behavior is limited only to the corpses of those we command them to target."

"Do I even want to ask."

"No, no, nothing so perverse, just . . . they d—they drain the bodies of all blood."

"Wait. Like—they drink it?"

Toshizō hesitated, but fudging was apparently no longer possible.

"Okay, wait," said Tōshirō. "Wait wait wait." He stared at the floor, because this was insane. "So you're cool. With vampires. But jumping world lines was too fantastical for you?" There was simply no way to express himself beyond throwing his hands in the air. "Honestly. You fuckin' guys. I'm so done with this."

"Tōshirō—"

"I'm so done." He stormed to the door and stared out across the courtyard, since he needed to vent but actually leaving would only incur additional wrath. "Fuckin' vampires."

"They're called furies."

"Fine, whatever. Explain what that means, then."

"It begins with . . . it's like a medicine. We try only to augment the unit when a man is on the brink of death. This medicine saves their lives, and confers other benefits as well."

"And . . . Susumu is one of them now?"

"Luckily, he appears to be of the more disciplined variety."

"Lucky. Sure. Now he just gets to die a second time."

"Actually, the wounds he has sustained tonight will most certainly heal within a few days."

"Did you say days?"

"They were developed for their obvious advantage in battle—"

"Yeah, but that was a pretty bad fuckin' plan, huh?"

"It was our only option. You saw at Fushimi what we're up against. Now . . . well, now, instead of losing every mortally wounded man, We Have Reserves."

"Wait, was that a TVtrope? Why was that a trope?"

"However their primary feature—"

"That was definitely a trope. Are you even taking this seriously?"

"No one's taking this more fucking seriously than I am."

"Fine. Get on with your primary feature then."

Toshizō pressed on with an even steelier look. "Unfortunately, their primary feature has become this—bloodlust."

"Sound like fuckin' vampires to me."

"This is a serious issue," he snapped, "don't dismiss it out of hand." Which, admittedly, it may have looked like, thereby further shortening Toshizō's fuse. "If you're so confident—"

"Are they Western?"

"Sorry?"

"Do they come from the West."

He grumbled but decided to humor him. "The ochimizu—the substance that turns them—was developed in the West, yes."

"Then lemme guess. They want to suck your blood, have superhuman strength and/or speed, daylight is a no-go, you can only kill them with a direct hit to the heart, or else decapitation. For the more variable traits, you can fuck 'em up with crosses, or silver, or maybe garlic, if you want to get extra cartoony—and close your mouth, you're going to catch flies in there." Toshizō's expression was a baffling combination of furious, enthralled, frustrated, mystified, murderous, desperate. . . . "I told you, man. Sometimes I do know what I'm talking about."

Sougo snorted.

"No one asked you."

"What are we to do then?" said Toshizō.

"Scuse me?"

"How can we fix this."

"You're asking for my help, please and thank you?"

Toshizō's eyes remained flat in unrelenting impatience.

"Unfortunately my primary feature is not an encyclopedia so I can't really help you. The rules are different in every universe, anyway."

"Are you now saying you've been to yet other universes previously."

"I mean fictional universes. Not that th—ah, whoops, almost demolished something there."

"And you accuse me of not taking things seriously."

"Look, I'm sorry that you're an idiot and let this happen—"

"It was a direct order from the shōgun. He foisted this substance upon us in its early stages, ordered us to do all the initial experimenting ourselves."

"Whoa. Are you serious? On your own guys?"

"At the time there were a few who were eager to comply, even once its effects had been observed."

"Nn, don't tell me. They're dead as hell."

"While we had our differences, these were our comrades, Tōshirō."

"I'm sorry, but . . . well, no I'm not. I fail to see where you've been smart in this, or taken the high road at all."

Toshizō fell silent. He opened his mouth a few times, but closed it definitively.

No point in making him feel worse about it, then. "Well, knowing how I feel about Kondō-san, I think I can guess what happened. It would be easy to blame Isami for all this. Right?" Toshizō's eyes lifted, face blank. "Right. So I admire you for not doing that."

"You'd do the same for Isao, wouldn't you, Tōshirō-kun."

He gave Toshizō a bitter smile. "That's our job, isn't it? As fukuchou."

For a few moments it was silent, until Sougo started making approximate kissy sounds, which was halfway impressive with a bunch of cloth between his teeth.

Tōshirō turned thoughtfully to Toshizō. "Maybe I could help you clean up."

"I think the guys would appreciate that."

And Sougo's muffled noises of protest as they abandoned him in favor of janitorial duties—music to their ears.