*cries because the lovey-dovey scenes come so slowly*
Fun facts!
Ch. 44: Mei saying "Hey, hey, Tabatin, hey, hey!" is a direct parody of Gintoki saying "Hey, Takatin, hey, hey!" in that one Otsuu's official fan club vs. TOSHI in Otsuu's competition arc.
Disclaimer: Gintamannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
Eyes of Wolves
- 45 -
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Mutsu twisted the silver band around her finger, dropping her hand when she noticed Zenshi staring at it. She shook her head, denying his silent inquiry.
"Is there a cult I'm being excluded from?" For him, the silver ring was not unfamiliar. It was the flash of metal that reoccurred in effusive, surreal shapes within the rare nightmares. It often accompanied a morphed vision of the back of a spaceship and an elongated face, belonging to a girl with platinum blonde hair.
"You're included. You just have a different membership badge." Mutsu didn't explain. "By the way, don't put those suitcases there. Our captain might hide in one and get thrown out to sea."
She was completely serious, so he took heed of this information.
Tsukuyo, who had been wandering with intensive interest about the ship, stopped to talk to the four Hyakka women accompanying her. Zenshi had acute hearing, but only picked up a few words — "Harusame; bank account; patterns" — above the hum of the ship's central generator.
"Deck hands to the bridge, deck hands to the bridge," came a voice.
"We're about to leave. Let's go inside." Mutsu guided her unusual guests to the bridge, where she settled in an authoritative chair that ejected Sakamoto when he was present, and surrounded her in glowing panels.
"Mutsu, Mutsu hold on, I feel kind of sick." Sakamoto, whose face was a sickening shade of almost green, grabbed the brunette's arm. His glasses slipped sloppily down his nose as his eyes widened.
"We're not waiting for you. We have a schedule to follow." She brusquely ordered the men to prepare for takeoff; the water beneath their ship in Edo's harbor shimmered and rippled. "We have the 9:30 AM slot for private takeoff at the Terminal. If we miss it even by a minute, they won't let us in. We've only got a five minute interval to get in and get through that portal. Let's go."
She shoved Sakamoto off of her; he was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.
"Tough love," Tsukuyo muttered.
"Talk to me about it," grumbled Mutsu, scanning the ship's statuses, which popped up all over the screens.
"Mutsu," hissed Sakamoto. "Mutsu, we're forgetting something."
"We're not. Shut up."
"M-M-Mutsu. We're definitely forgetting something." The man looked anxious, and Zenshi soon determined why. The ship was rocking slightly, which was relatively normal when sailing through the ocean or simply cruising the air in the fashion of a passenger plane, but the regular, faded hum of the ship simply had a strange pitch to it.
"Your gravity core has only activated one-fourth of its mass chambers," Zenshi told Mutsu flatly. "Your ship does have a four-chamber core, correct?"
"Yes." Mutsu glanced up at her cousin before returning to the screens, flipping efficiently until she found a scrolling of inner blueprint mechanisms. The more powerful ship cores were capable of utilizing fractions of their energy sources, making for balance on the ship when entering different magnetic and gravitational ranges in space. On Earth, they didn't quite need to turn it on, but since they were going to enter the Terminal straightaway, all four chambers needed to be at least activated, if not employed.
Mutsu found the gravity core's current conditions.
"You're right. How did you know?" There was a pleased smirk on her face, somewhat impressed.
"You can tell by the sound," Zenshi informed her. "The four-chamber core will give off a high-pitch whine when reduced to one level."
Tsukuyo and her women, rather lost, simply admired the easy conversation between Zenshi and the other Yato. Sakamoto, at the least, had been right. He, too, could recognize the ship's sounds with a skilled ear, but had trouble conveying it explicitly to his vice-captain. It was a downfall that caused him much pain by the hand of the irritable Mutsu.
"I forgot," admitted Mutsu. "We need to turn them all on to enter the Terminal."
"It's better to set this—" Zenshi reached over her shoulder and tapped a setting on the touch screen, "—instead of this."
The lookers-on simply watched the elaborate menu of options become simpler and simpler until the standards for the ship were ideal.
"You know your ships," Mutsu said appreciatively.
"How do you think I got out?" It was a halfhearted joke, but she found it funny enough.
From a former pirate's point of view, that is.
.: TWENTY YEARS AGO :.
The blow comes so hard that it takes all of his might to repel the momentum and stagger back on his heels. His forearms come away bruised from defending so fiercely.
"Your performance is poor," Hosen calls across the room, his deep voice resounding in a daunting boom. Each word ricochets off the walls and embeds itself within Zenshi's mind like dogmatic parasites, forever echoing in his ears.
The fierce king of the Yato doesn't hold back, and after crossing the room with three effortless strides, he seizes Zenshi by the collar and lifts him.
"There is strength in your blood," Hosen tells him. "Your father has strength built into the marrow of his very bones."
Zenshi thinks of his mother, but not because she's an example of a peaceful Yato, but because he's honestly terrified. He's about seven years old, then, and it's an age that sees his closed lips and quiet shudders. Hosen accepts the boy's entrenched quietude, but is never very kind.
"Speak, boy," orders the old Yato.
Zenshi swallows.
"Hosen-sama," says the boy, hardly a whisper scratching through his throat.
"I will teach you to spar, so long as you remember to have strength in your stance—" Hosen puts him down and nearly crushes those thin shoulders in his iron grip "—and recall your many forms of strength."
"Many forms?"
"Your father has many forms of strength. He finds power in words and in combat. But they have equaling effects on one another, and therefore it is deemed a different strength." Hosen takes Zenshi's hand and forces him to ball it into a fist. "When you swing, swing with your blood."
Hosen's teachings require the concentration of inner energy, a sort of qi flow, that he recognizes as the harmony of Yato blood and self-coordination.
"Do you admire your father, boy?"
At this age, he does. Zenshi nods.
"You forget your many forms. Speak."
"I admire my father very much." Zenshi tenses his thin arm against Hosen's palm, which the man has offered for him to strike. Despite his concentration, the little one is hardly a fly, landing whimsically on the man's hand.
"You have his eyes and his voice," Hosen acknowledges gruffly. "A manipulative one, your father is."
Zenshi doesn't understand, though. He only soaks in the clear, blunt information, the fighting technicalities that his genome devours with exhilaration. His legs are sore and his arms ache terribly — he's often black and blue for the next twenty or so hours, to his mother's shock and his aunt's concerned dismay — but he fights. He learns the weight of a parasol in his hands, he learns the depth to which he must strike "with his blood" to produce a cut in another's flesh with his fingers alone.
Sometimes, when his father is home, there comes the rare occasion where the practices are watched. Hosen is patient, seeing as while he bides his time in a sectional hunt for power, his main occupation for this short interval is training a young boy.
"You've taught him to strike well," Linter notes one day. Zenshi is shaking, whether out of fatigue or the pressure of his father's gaze, he cannot tell.
"He learns quickly." Hosen folds his arm. "How does the international front appear?"
"The young President Hittomahn is adamant that his planet remains neutral in all affairs, but his Secretary of State is willing to negotiate. The situation seems well for the time being."
"Sometimes I wonder if you are a lawyer or a politician."
"Neither." Linter nods at Zenshi. "But if I am anything, I am a father. At least, when the occupation permits."
"You are more of a king than a politician," decides Hosen. "No, a dictator."
"Of what?"
"Of everything."
Linter laughs, and it's a charismatic laugh that captures all the right tones, comforting and smooth, yet with an elusive magnetism that leaves one wondering if he had actually even smiled.
"Brilliant, Hosen," he endorses. The man strides over to his son. "But I'd like to see what my son has learned."
"He has learned plenty," Hosen informs the father. "He will cut through steel if I ask him to."
"Oya? Is that so, Zenshi?" Linter sets a fond hand on his son's head, affectionately ruffling the longish blue-black hair that matched his own. Zenshi found that, despite his father's long absences, he was always indisputably drawn to the man, enraptured by the deceptively kind smile. At this point, he's thoroughly convinced that his father loves them. In fact, Linter does — it's only many years down the line that Zenshi becomes dynamically antagonistic to his father.
"Ma wants to see you," is all the boy manages in his little voice.
"Does she?" It's as if his father only asks questions all the time, and even answers questions with questions. Zenshi sought something concrete, but never received it.
"She misses you."
"Is that so." There is melancholy in the man's face, but it recants itself and is replaced by a substantive smile. There's not a single question left in the man, but for his son's sake, he pretends he still does. "Now, you should thank your teacher for the day. We'd better head home early."
Zenshi turns and thanks Hosen, a tad louder than usual because his father's presence bolsters his voice.
"Your performance was rather decent today," Hosen tells him. "You remembered more than last time."
They bid the king goodbye, and Zenshi finds himself trailing after his father, umbrella open overhead. The rain patters softly. He leaps from toe to toe, avoiding the puddles where other children would have excitedly splashed in them. The buildings that rise like giants that efface the sky are gloomy, reflecting the dismal, constant overcast.
The father and son reach their abode, tucked away just like all other Yato residences are. Zenshi finds that he has grown taller — the skinny pipe he used to skate his fingers along as he walked home was now too low to comfortably keep a hand on. Dark days would have him following the pipeline to his door, but now it simply rusted over out of reach of his fingertips.
The door is locked; Zenshi is young and typically doesn't carry a key. His trips to and from Hosen's larger, more elaborate dwelling are delineated by public walkways and mostly safe routes. With his new training, his mother tries not to worry, leaving the boy to his own. And Linter, who is always gone, has no need for a key. The man and the boy both rely on knocking, to which their lady will promptly respond.
"Zenshi, you're earl—"
She staggers in her words, discovering that the figure that fills most of the doorway isn't her son, but her husband.
"Are you going to let me in, or are Zenshi and I going to wait out the rain?" It's ironic because the rain rarely ever stops, just as Lanhua's lonely depression is endlessly cycling on highs and lows.
She steps aside hastily, but he catches her and embraces her.
"It's been too long," the wife says, almost in an argumentative tone. She scolds him, she gets mad, and it's something to which he replies with a reprehensible chuckle.
"I know, love. I know."
And it's in those moments that Zenshi remembers his family as a whole — and those moments only that he will bury forever, because they no longer exist.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
The Hyakka whispering in short, excitable tones behind them was rather unnerving. Having long since flown from Edo, Zenshi and Tsukuyo had left Mutsu and Sakamoto to their own in the bridge, and were casually touring one of the decks. The Yoshiwaran women, unsure of where to go, simply tagged along after their leading lady, who stood suspiciously close to the tall, aloof Yato in navy.
"So yer good with ships," Tsukuyo said.
"So it seems," he replied.
"Question twenty," she said abruptly, her stride extending into a brisk clip. He easily kept pace, while the Hyakka, who sensed that they were being left behind purposefully, hung back with stilted curiosity.
"So it finally appears," Zenshi said under his breath. Tsukuyo ignored this. "Well?"
"The other day, a few days before Soyo-hime toured Yoshiwara." Tsukuyo seemed to increase the speed of her walking, the tempo of her steps matching the fluttering anxiety strung stubbornly through her words. "Seita asked you somethin'. You know the one."
"Do I?"
She glared, and he sighed.
"Yes, you do." She stopped then, so suddenly that he nearly tripped over her as she turned to face him. In an impressive effort, he gracefully glided to her left and placed a nonchalant hand briefly on her shoulder.
"And?"
Tsukuyo, who seemed speculative of the short contact, synthesized a temperate attitude and an undaunted face of patience.
"Who were you referrin' to?"
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
OH OH OH
OHHHHHHHHH
...hey Takatin hey hey!
Hosen though!
And I totally didn't just make a sci-fi device, haha.