This is it.
Chapter 60: -Eyes of Wolves- THE FINAL CHAPTER.
Author's Notes: I'd like to thank all of you for reading this far and sticking with this story, especially since it's been such a long road. I'd also like to thank you for your appreciation of this story because even though it's about an OC, the fact that you enjoy reading about Zenshi is more than I could ever ask for!
Reading Note: Now, there's a reason this took a long time to post. Chapter 60 could have been broken up into about 10 chapters. Yep. 10 chapters. Each chapter was approximately 4 Microsoft Word pages. This is nearly 40. So unless you want to bookmark your spot, make sure you have a lot of time on your hands if you're going to tackle chapter 60 in one go! It'll be a ride from beginning to end! (and I make long author's notes soooo... haha)
Author's Notes...again: Upon further inspection - and besides the fact that this is my first lengthy, multi-chapter story ever finished - I realize that my writing is just a long, long roller coaster ride. There is somewhat of a climax (I hope you feel like there is action and plot) but there is never really a peak point. And I think that's because this story isn't "over," so to speak. Zenshi will live on in the Gintama world...and who knows what else might happen?
Random notes: There shall be references to the future...I hope you enjoy.
FUN FACTS: due to the fact that this is the last chapter and you won't be able to see the fun facts of this chapter in the next, THEY SHALL ALL BE HERE -
all fun facts from chapter 60:
Chicago's Hancock building is referenced somewhere in Sciuttla...can you find it? (It's pretty obvious if you know the Hancock building, haha)
Jinlin pulls a Katsura...she has been on standby. Reference is further on.
Mei pulls a Zenshi. She quotes him somewhere. (It's also a saying Linter uses)
Sakamoto, at some point, has a stuffy nose. His exchange with Mutsu is one I often have with my Dad. Ahaha.
And a series of KHR References due to my recent KHR relapse, including:
...A Rokudo Mukuro quote about the mist...
...Two prominent mafia families (if you know KHR, these will be so obvious you'll cry dying will flames)...
...Best mechanics because I am fond of Spanner...
...Pride definition (influenced by Vongola vs. Shimon battles)...
...and last but not least: Ice Tuna Pineapple. Yeah, I don't know what that is, either. But hey. (I'm not a 6927 fan, by the way...)
Thank you all again! I hope you enjoy...
Without any further ado...
Eyes of Wolves
- 60 -
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
A thousand and one things crossed his mind, but never once did he forget that goal.
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
"It's a little late," says Jenhao, "but I think it will do."
He and Jinlin, who is the calmest woman on the Yato planet, blink the tears away quickly. They kneel before a small plot of land, a little bit of incense burning. Standing behind them, a very quiet Yato woman and her daughter of about three or four cling quietly to the scene. No one says they are sorry for the loss because they do not have to. They just help the family cry.
"Do you think he would have approved of this?" Mei whispers. "He was always a pretty stiff guy."
"The ensign was kindhearted if you knew where to look for it," Zenshi murmurs. "He watched out for you all."
Zenshi walks up to Ensign Delong's widow and touches her elbow. The woman simply nods, tears spilling down her cheeks. When the young man kneels to lay a hand on the daughter's shoulder, the widow cannot help but choke back a sob.
He cannot do anything, but he can let them mourn.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
There was no surprise when more and more people he knew joined him. By the time they reached the edge of the city, the space terminals where the military's main forces began to balk, Mutsu was on his left and Sakamoto just beyond, looking like a veteran of war with the way he slashed so easily.
At some point, Jenhao crumpled beneath the marauding gunfire. Someone scooped him up. They ran on.
.: SEVEN YEARS AGO :.
Lonely, lonely, little umbrella.
Lanhua stares outside.
It rains, just as it always has.
Only now, there is no one to share it with.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Zenshi had a moment of delusional delight nearing the end of their charge. When Abuto, with one arm, cut down several, Zenshi began to smile. But when his own father covered his back, he had a split second of disconnected joy. He never knew where it came from, but it was there: the blood of a Yato mixed in with a freedom he could not quite put into words.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
Their spaceship drifts by Earth vaguely on the Earthlings' schedule. Mei can't say she enjoys their marshy tie with the Kiheitai, but she has developed a tentative bond with their highest ranking lady, Matako. The two lament daily about the woes of traveling with motivated but bloodthirsty men.
Nonetheless, as they pass into the Milky Way and reach Earth's solar system via Amanto loop gates, she watches the red of Mars blink amongst the asteroids and smiles bitterly.
But the one thing she'll never come to terms with is the fact that that's where the asteroid belt lies.
.: SEVEN YEARS AGO :.
Three people jostle him as he gets on the ship.
Seven times, he gets lost.
Three days, and he knows exactly why he's here.
But he doesn't acknowledge the fact that he's running away, because the three hundred seventh Harusame recruit will eventually return.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
There were three things about humans that never ceased to fascinate the young Yato man with hair of mysterious midnight blue.
One was the hospitality of strangers — at least, most of them. A majority of humans were so open to talk, to touch and feel, that he was subject to a fair portion of culture shock.
Two was, of course, earthling food. A subject, he found, was most intriguing to his race.
Three was — no, not the thinness of the air and the potency of the sun — the radiated warmth of the people he became acquainted with. Perhaps they were anomalies in the green-speckled planet. He would not know otherwise.
But it was that very warmth that attracted him to the people he had come to know, to the woman that first laid an impression of strength and independence upon him. It had taken time, but eventually she had stopped avoiding those questions. In fact, despite never really answering his questions, skipping maybe fifteen of twenty, she had eventually allowed him to know. She answered each one in time.
So, when he caught wind of the explosion a split second before it occurred, he found himself trying to remember every single question he'd ever asked, and every single answer she'd ever given him, every single thing he'd learned about her.
How she might have fallen in love with a man.
How she might have given up her future as a woman above the surface.
How she owed Hinowa her life.
How she was fond of little gourmet cakes.
Her low tolerance of alcohol, her violent tendencies, her grumpy morning protests, her socially awkward conversation starters.
Her scars, both visible and invisible.
An endless list of things, from "hist'ry" to "blue and yella" to "part'clar" little things that flashed in his mind with poignant brevity, like a last breath.
All of these little grains of sugar, dissolved his memory, spurring him forward. They pushed him in front of her when the explosion occurred because this time, for her sake, he would take her scars for her.
.: Early SEPTEMBER, THREE WEEKS AGO :.
He didn't realize how many nights she'd spent with him, sometimes falling asleep after a long day, sometimes just staring out the window into Yoshiwara's eternal night bustle, until he found that the fit of her hand in his was no longer a shock.
Simply because it just belonged.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
The Yato were a mercenary clan, built for battle and war. Sometimes, Zenshi was convinced they were programmed for loss. But then, other times, when he saw the pain and longing in people's eyes, he wondered if Yato was just a name.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
Sometimes Tabs joins her. They sit before a large window and just stare. They don't have to figure out if they're going up, down, left, or right.
So long as they keep moving.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Tsukuyo's lungs were burning, but the fire was an accolade of strength. Kunai after kunai left her hands, even as bullets whizzed perilously close to her skin. It was a wonder she was only skimmed by one shot on the arm, ducking in time to avoid a laser. She shouldn't have plunged in so suddenly, but now that Zenshi was at her side, she simply kept her eyes glued to his back and never let the distance between them grow. A deluge of adrenaline rushed through her limbs.
She danced.
And when the massive East Tomokaz Trans-Galaxy Terminal appeared out of nowhere — its elongated takeoff shafts looming over them with their branded glory — Tsukuyo was one of the first to leapt to the forefront. Some military ships were still descending, but the rebels had acquired a haphazardly constructed air force. Many zipped by on small air bikes, cruising with deadly silence and speed. Tsukuyo ran beneath their crossing shadows.
"Hit the floor!" Mei shouted. She dragged two people, including Tsukuyo, to the ground as a wave of rapid artillery shells crashed down. Tabs and Zenshi knelt before them, umbrellas open, canvases licking with flames.
"Head left," Zenshi instructed, spotting a good number of rebel fighters taking cover behind taller buildings.
They wove closer and closer, Tsukuyo brushing the hair out of her eyes and tearing the hem of her kimono. A shard of shrapnel had opened a devastating cut up her right leg, but she simply took another shear off her sleeve and wrapped it up. Whatever happened, she refused to fall too far behind the Amanto warriors.
A Sciuttlan rebel waved them forward; they made another diagonal pass. They were nearing the main entrance of the terminal.
"Stay behind me," instructed Zenshi. For a split second, the smoke ebbed and the blur was gone. He had a hand resting gently on the small of her back as they waited. His dark hair clung to his forehead with sweat and he wiped blood from his chin multiple times.
"Are ya holdin' up all right?" Tsukuyo panted. The question, though aimed at everyone, was mostly for Zenshi.
"I'm fine," he replied. "Mei?"
"Managing," replied the Yato woman.
"Tabs?"
"A-okay, Lieutenant."
Mei elbowed the tech, and he grimaced.
"Last jump, and we'll catch up to Abuto and Jenhao," Mei continued. "Look."
They followed the direction she pointed in — there, preparing to raid the terminal's main entrance as soon as enough rebels made it to that point, where their fellow Yato crewmen. An insurmountable number of deceased was scattered across streets, gruesomely run over by tanks and armed vehicles. No one admitted the difficulty of running past collapsing comrades. There was always a burst of colored skin here or there, a teal head of hair stained red and hitting the pavement with a devastating crash.
"That's a big jump," Tabs muttered loudly.
"Deal with it." Zenshi pulled out the gun Mutsu had handed him earlier. "Take this."
He pushed it into Tsukuyo's hands, despite her obstinate protests.
"You're the only one unarmed, chickie," Mei scoffed impatiently. "Can you even shoot?"
"Mei." Tabs touched her arm, but she shook him off.
Tsukuyo glared, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and accepted the gun.
Despite the derisive tension between the two women, the four of them moved together fluidly. Zenshi and Mei covered the front and back ends of their four-man cell, clearing out the safest path. Tabs and Tsukuyo simply continued moving, maneuvering, attacking where they had to. It was a long trail of ducking and covering and shooting, picking their way across the wide city avenue and over still-warm bodies.
They stumbled behind a large building, a huge black skyscraper with black steel bars shaped in long X's running up the face. Beneath one of the beams, with several perched up higher, were Abuto and Jenhao.
"I'm tempted to take one of those ships and just get the hell outta here," Abuto grumbled, grimacing. He rubbed his neck, hand coming away red. Startled, a few asked if he'd been injured. The vice-captain merely shrugged off the question, looking nonchalant though slightly paler than usual.
"Between the next shelling, we go," Jenhao announced. "Laser fire will be heavy, so stay low. If you have one of those special shields, use them. Though I doubt they'll stand against these for long."
Several Sciuttlans nodded. A few strange Amanto, clearly foreigners with their sickly skin and droopy antennae, clustered around Jenhao attentively. Despite his injuries, Jenhao was a stunning commander. Ridden with bullet holes, wounds hastily wrapped in cloth, he emanated the military brilliance that was once the 7th Division's pride.
"North Star troops," said the Yato man, having traded his Sciuttlan pastels for an old Harusame uniform, "follow my lead. The rest of you, follow Abuto. Are we clear?"
A murmur of assent rippled through the ragtag crowd. Most had firearms strapped along their belts, but several carried samurai swords and staffs. It was, in a way, another joui war.
As soon as the heavy artillery fire ceased, leaving their ears with an irreparable ring, they took off. Instantaneously, several men jerked backwards, bullets embedded in their chests.
"Get down!" hollered Jenhao. He and the first wave of rebels worked low to the ground, finding cover where they could.
Zenshi touched Tsukuyo's elbow lightly, his mouth so close to her ear she felt the light warmth of his breath. The courtesan turned, just slightly, so that their cheeks were side by side as he whispered to her.
"We're going up the east entrance."
Tsukuyo frowned.
"But didn't–"
"C'mon, chickie," Mei hissed, waving them down the avenue. She and Tabs had already begun to slip away from the group upon seeing Abuto move out into the open.
At the end of the narrow corridor, the space fighter that they hadn't seen since the beginning of the fray awaited them. Elbow deep in dried, flaky blood, a maniacal gleam in his eye, was Kamui.
"Seize the terminal," he ordered Tabs and Mei. The two exchanged glances.
"Yes, sir," murmured Mei, tossing Tsukuyo a glare because the human woman was still frozen to the spot. Zenshi's hand on her lower back urged her forward. But doubt gnawed a knot in Tsukuyo's gut, and a voice grating on her ears whispered imminent doom.
She shook her head. She couldn't let such ludicrous thoughts hinder them now.
As they ran, stealthy within the shadows, it occurred to her that she was practically aiding a Harusame heist of sorts. Nonetheless she followed the strong Amanto presences, each one gliding from alleyway to alleyway with catlike grace.
Almost as if they'd teleported, the east end of the terminal appeared. A solid wall of gleaming metal in irregularly arranged squares and blocks. It resembled what Tsukuyo had seen of Edo's terminal, but had a strange blue luster to its panels.
"How'd you know this was unguarded?" asked Mei incredulously.
Kamui gave her an amused glance, one brow raised higher than the other.
"I killed them all. The backup too."
"Of course," muttered the Yato woman, shuddering when Kamui picked the crusted Amanto blood off his arms like a scab. In the meantime, Tabs was browsing his handheld tablet – which he'd swiped from the control room earlier – and was monitoring enemy maneuvers.
"Danchou, you took down the first backup wave, but it hasn't gone unnoticed." Tabs flipped the electronic screen so they could see it. "Second one comes in five."
"Five minutes is plenty of time," Zenshi broke in. He pointed towards the unmanned door just to their left, marked with an authorized personnel only placard. There was a mutual nod of concurrence, and they resumed their five-man invasion.
In unison, the four Yato flinched. For Zenshi, there was a foggy sensation of having been in the same place before, during a different time, shielding someone else. Kamui, whose instincts were sharpest, threw himself to the floor immediately. Mei and Tabs followed, bodies collapsing to the ground with such urgency that it appeared as if their bones had simply melted.
But Tsukuyo didn't know; she couldn't have.
"Zen—"
But suddenly there was nothing because there were steel shards flying and just the two of them, hanging in space for what seemed like forever.
.: Early SEPTEMBER, THREE WEEKS AGO :.
He dreamt of Hosen and of Mutsu and of his father.
There, in a dimly lit dojo, he would crash into the wall and watch the muscles in the Night King's arm ripple. Every line in the man's skin revealed itself to Zenshi's eye, and a single blink had him pressed to the floor, struggling to breathe. Over and over, Hosen taught him the torturous meaning of strength. But yet he could not muster a single ounce of energy to retaliate. His thin arms hung loosely by his sides. Hosen disappeared.
"You don't know the way around your own ship?" Mutsu always asked, materializing out of thin air. And there she was, asking it again, her mousy brown hair skimming her lashes and shading her inquisitive eyes. "You're pretty slow, aren't you?"
He was more exasperated than offended.
"I know my way."
"So then where are we?"
"Yes, son, where are we?" Linter asked. "What are you doing at this end of the ship?"
It occurred to Zenshi that Mutsu had it all wrong. He wanted to ask her how she was so slow to catch on. Daughters of pirates generally tended to be quick and witty. So then why hadn't she caught onto the fact that this was Linter's ship, not Zenshi's?
"It's your ship," she repeated.
"It's not."
Her hair is longer, tied in a simple clasp between her shoulder blades, and there is a human man at her side.
"It's your ship," she kept repeating. The same line echoed until the sounds didn't match her mouth, until the human clasped her arm and told her something Zenshi couldn't hear, until her face blurred into tired lines and all he saw was his aunt's face, then his mother's face, and then his father's face.
"It's my ship," his father said.
"It's not." The words floated from Zenshi's lips despite his efforts to keep silent. They came unwillingly, but they weren't untrue.
"It used to be my ship," Linter corrected. A firm hand was placed on Zenshi's shoulder and suddenly Linter was so much taller than him. He was a little boy again, huddling beneath the wing of his father. "But now it's yours."
Zenshi awoke with a start. Sweat, beaded on his forehead, ran slickly down to his chin.
"You all right?" came the soft murmur.
His chest heaved, as if he'd sprinted across an entire nation only moments prior. Visibly, the Yato swallowed, shuddering when a hand gently caressed his cheek. Her fingers came away damp with the nervous, cold perspiration from his hairline.
Tsukuyo didn't say much, but she didn't find it necessary. As soon as he absorbed her presence, her faintly sweet but smoky scent, the cold dissipated. He nodded in reply to her earlier answer, coming to his senses and taking her hand slowly.
"Nightmare?"
"Not quite." Zenshi didn't exactly want to sit up. It was serene, having calmed down, watching the faint light through the window catch the thin gold highlights of her hair.
"Somethin' else?"
"You could say that."
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
"He was like my cynical older brother," Jinlin says resignedly. "Taught me to be who I am," she adds with a small smile. "Hard to tell, right?"
The most nondescript yet elegant woman on the entire ship, Jinlin boasts an unremarkable existence among the Harusame's 7th Division. But just as a piece of paper or an unmarked book cover may lay blank and meaningless on its own, Jinlin's contents and colors and influences are what make her an entirely unique personality. It didn't take people long to realize that the young woman who had accompanied a brusque warrior of a man would turn out to be one of the division's most valuable assets.
"You've been promoted to his position," Zenshi notes. The group trudges away from the cemetery, leaving thick tracks in the mud. The sky is surprisingly docile, the rain stopped momentarily for the ceremony.
"It's nothing much," Jinlin sighs. "I tend to follow Mei wherever she goes, anyway."
Mei has, in a way, become Jinlin's younger sister. The older Yato woman keeps a watchful eye on the younger, never doubting the latter's skill but always diligent. Part of it is for her own peace of mind, and part of it is a lingering loyalty to both her cousin, Delong, and to Zenshi.
"Take care of her," Zenshi says in a low voice.
"Of course, Lieutenant." She is one of the few he doesn't correct when she calls him by his old title. It's a strange feeling now, to be called Lieutenant Zenshi, but the way Jinlin says it, the name harbors no affiliation with Kamui or the Harusame. It's simply him. He's sincerely grateful for that.
Tabs and Mei trail behind them, conversing in sotto voce tones, as if they're trading ruinous secrets. But one of them eventually bursts into giggles and it's evident that they're doing nothing more than tossing bad jokes back and forth. Once in a while, they include Tsukuyo, who treks dutifully through the mud but appears somewhat alienated on this rainy planet. For the longest time, all the Yato present have felt like foreigners, so uncomfortable on foreign soil that they have grown numb to most culture shocks unless they pay close attention. Now, on their own home soil, the misty air is painfully nostalgic yet sharply mismatched with their transformed identities.
But even so, it's home.
Tsukuyo struggles somewhat, soaking in the desolate cities and winding urban streets, the eternal rain – holding its breath for the moment – and the various Yato that cast them curious glances.
"If you ever need anything," Jinlin says suddenly, "don't hesitate to call."
Zenshi passes her a slightly amused glance. "Call the Harusame?"
"Of course." She smiles slightly, but doesn't look his way. "And keep in touch with Jenhao, seeing as he's strayed to politics." She pauses, but then continues, almost talking to herself. "Our team is rather small. It looks like new recruits shall be rising up the ranks soon."
Zenshi nods. "Pick wisely."
"As if I ever had the choice," Jinlin laughs. "I'll see to it that Mei picks a balanced team."
"And make sure she thinks things through."
Jinlin smiles, genuinely. It's something they rarely see, and he's glad she's able to muster the strength to do so in her grief.
"Are you going to see your family?"
Zenshi pauses. He's been watching Mei and Tabs jostle Tsukuyo back and forth, wondering if he should go to her side. But the blonde courtesan has a tentative smirk on her face, growing fonder of Mei's teasing and Tabs's obnoxious punch lines.
"I'm not holding my breath," he says. "But maybe when it rains, we'll go."
Jinlin looks up; a raindrop lands squarely on her forehead.
"That sounds like a yes."
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Tsukuyo looked as she always had, leaning over him, except this time her dark violet eyes reflected the fear trembling in her limbs. Her hands wove through his hair, arm wrapped around him as she tried hoisting him to and upright position.
He couldn't really hear what she was saying. He wished she would repeat it.
The pain in his back and abdomen had reached a peak, and it had turned into a numb scream of black and red that encompassed his entire body. People were hollering in his face. From seemingly nowhere, Mei and Tabs swooped into his vision, faces aghast. A flash of red, and Zenshi tried to turn and see Kamui. When he couldn't quite find his former captain, he reached up weakly and grasped Tsukuyo's wrist.
A wrenching rip caused him to cry out in agony.
Kamui certainly seemed to be fond of pulling out strips of metal left and right. A long, low whistle slipped through the boy's mouth, startling Zenshi with the sudden recovery of his hearing. Kamui shook his head.
"That was really dumb," said the redhead bluntly. "Really dumb."
"No need to say it twice," Zenshi managed through gritted teeth. The volume of their words pulsated in and out of his ears. One moment, he could hear Tsukuyo's repetitive mantra – though he couldn't discern the words – and the next, nothing. Then five seconds later, Mei was barking orders and Tabs was flipping urgently across the screen of his digital pad, and then abruptly, there would be absolutely nothing again.
"I'm not going to stay and help you, Zen," Kamui admitted frankly. Not a drop of remorse colored his face. He smiled, of course.
"I don't expect you to," replied Zenshi. Or at least, the older Yato thought he answered. In truth, his lips were cold and his throat constricted, the world was a gradient of blurred lines and disconcertingly sharp, exaggerated angles.
Just as he lost consciousness, Zenshi began to hear and understand Tsukuyo's words. Over and over again, she said:
"Don't leave, stay with me."
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
There is a nostalgic ring to the dank, narrow alleys that wind through the Yato community on the western edge of what suffices as their capital. Everything grows upward in urban fashion, albeit slightly decrepit and leaky. It would be equivalent to a Kabukichou suburb, Zenshi supposes..
"This ain't a depressin' place at all," Tsukuyo says bluntly, a sardonic and dubious expression plastered on her face. Her sarcasm rings in echoes along the walls.
"It's just quiet," Zenshi replies. He offers his hand, and she takes it.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
His aunt brushed his hair back from his face. From up close, she was startlingly young, the creases smoothed from her face. Almost peculiarly, it seemed as if seven years had been carved from her face.
With a start, Zenshi realized that that was simply how he remembered her. He hadn't seen her for seven years, and for two of those seven she had been dead. It was a concept he hadn't quite let sit long enough to absorb. He owed most of his denial to Mutsu, who was stunningly similar to her mother in terms of the soft expression. Of course, Mutsu was prone to cold bursts of indifference as well as a tendency to abandon all soft, flowery aspects of femininity in exchange for gruff leadership, but still they were similar.
Zenshi opened his mouth to speak, but Auntie shook her head quickly.
"You can't stay here," she told him softly. "You can't stay here."
When he finally got around to forcing his voice out, all he managed was a feeble request for her to stay. "Wait," he whispered, almost inaudibly.
And then his Aunt, with the long, brown hair she and Zenshi's mother both had, began to fade. She continued repeating the same words until her voice was firmly ingrained into his mind, seared as a last memory he acknowledged as real.
But even things printed into memory were susceptible to change.
By the time Zenshi realized he was awake, those words had changed.
"You can't die here, you can't die now, you can't die."
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
They pick their way around puddles, the surefooted Zenshi guiding Tsukuyo through the dark underpasses, having memorized the paths long ago. He pictures children running through this alley, little girls with red hair and yellow rain boots, their brothers bounding off the walls with laughter.
"It's not far," Zenshi says.
But Tsukuyo doesn't mind. Her hand, clasped gently within his larger one, is warm and secure, and she is content.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"Stop savin' my life," was the first thing he heard. "I can take care of m'self."
The words weren't exactly directed at him; instead, it was as if they were spoken thinly to the air, unaware of his conscious state. He contemplated replying, but discovered he could muster no strength. Vulnerability struck him like a fiend, gnawing ferociously at his gut. Oddly enough, it wasn't just the fact that he lied prone in a pale room – instead, it was because it suddenly occurred to him that an entire block of time was absent from his memory.
"And stop fakin' sleep. I know yer there." A cold hand brushed his cheek.
"You could tell?" he murmured.
"Of course. Yer breathin' changed. Yer not so discreet and sneaky anymore, y'know."
A silent chuckle hung dejectedly in the air. Was it a fair tradeoff? To hand in aloofness and fine-detail skills as punishment for falling?
He hadn't lost it all.
After all, she still flushed red when he reached for her hand.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
Humans, Mei realizes, are brash and brave and the most peculiar race she shall ever encounter. They do not thirst for blood, like the Yato, by nature. They thirst through greed and desire and vengeance.
Yet they also do so for love.
It's a strange thing, to see people who wish to protect the tiny quotidian things they love. She wonders if she would give up her life just to see someone smile.
She decides she would.
But humans are the ones who taught her this, and that makes them all the more mysterious.
.: -Three Hours Ago- SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
There were metal shards protruding from his back, from his chest, from his limbs. Mei and Tabs, who could probably care less about the extensive amount of bleeding at the moment, were far more concerned about holding their former lieutenant down.
"We have to keep moving," Kamui informed them flatly.
Zenshi, attempting to smile wryly, agreed.
"Zen, you're not going anywhere," hissed Mei, pushing on the man's shoulder. Disregarding his old classmate completely, to her dismay, Zenshi began tearing the shrapnel from his body with reckless lack of consideration for himself. Tabs grabbed him by the other shoulder, and Tsukuyo took his hand.
"Stop," all three ordered in unison.
Then, with horror, they realized that the man was hardly conscious at all. Yet his hand was at his belt, and despite teetering precariously like a building about to topple, he was watching.
Watching out for them, their silent guardian wolf with the blue eyes and black hair.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
She sometimes wonders, when Tabs sits next to her by the window, if it was Zenshi that taught them their ways. Certainly, they have fed off his strange, standoffish ways and taciturn dealings. Whenever she thinks this, she laughs aloud, startling her companion.
Tabs certainly has a knack for falling under the influence of others. He still has that nervous quality about him, but occasionally he'll throw her the perfect lopsided smile, the one that is half in the present and half somewhere else, replicating a Zenshi-like demeanor with ease. He's also developed a calloused, experience side – most of the younger recruits have been effectively scolded by Tabs. Typically, the onlooker Jinlin will smile to herself. There is nothing about Tabs's strong instruction that does not reflect Ensign Delong. And when Tabs is soft and considerate, he is a heartwarming mix of Jenhao and his own goofy, lighthearted self.
His younger sister had taken off on a quest to be a star, and despite the fact that she aims to be like intergalactic idol Aina, Mei approves of Tabs's support for his sibling. She has watched him grow from timid deer to brave soldier. She wonders how she herself looks nowadays.
But today, she wears a small Harusame pin that designates her rank as Lieutenant. Essentially, she is third-in-command, but she is loud and obnoxious and has picked up the least from Zenshi as possible. Even after four years in class and seven years on deck with him, she decides she'll never be a competent diplomat. In fact, she can't even keep silent for very long, so "to hell with that!" she exclaims.
"Do you ever miss him?" Tabs suddenly asks, sitting cross-legged beside her. Mei isn't so much taken aback as she is offended. Some part of her tells her she'll always miss her old, stoic companion, but some part of her is steely and cold. Yato.
"Nah," she replies. She's lying, but she won't let that convince her. "I don't mind not being stepped on."
Tabs throws her his toothy grin, which often looks out of place on his matured features. He's got rough stubble along his jaw line, which is square and filled out. She's never noticed, but upon closer look, Tabs has deep green eyes, swirling with evergreens and spring maples.
"Do you?" she returns.
He shrugs.
"I feel like he hasn't left, sometimes."
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Tsukuyo's hand was firmly enclosed in his fingers. He ran his thumb along her knuckles, softly. He didn't ask where they were.
.: -Three Hours Ago- SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"Mei, Tabs. We're leaving." Kamui hadn't been joking when he said he'd leave Zenshi to bleed to death. The unspoken but evident command was astoundingly stiff. But Mei and Tabs were ever loyal to their former lieutenant, probably out of habit. Tabs was waiting on Zenshi to regain consciousness and snap something about hustling or getting shot. He often found comfort in that low, smooth voice. Nothing came.
Mei grabbed Tabs's arm, wrenching him away.
"Sorry, chickie," Mei said through gritted teeth. Tsukuyo caught the glimmer of agony in the other woman's eyes, torn between two different loyalties.
"He would tell us to go," Tabs agreed, letting his fellow Yato steer him away. "Maybe next time, Lieutenant."
Zenshi, now with an arm slung around Tsukuyo's shoulders, looked up briefly. He was battling just to stay awake, let alone move. It wouldn't do to simply up and away to heaven now – though he doubted he'd be going anywhere nice.
"You need to lay down," Tsukuyo told him firmly.
Zenshi weakly grunted, watching Mei and Tabs repeatedly cast concerned glances over their shoulders as they ducked into the gaping hole made by the explosion. A sensor, which had detonated the bomb, had fallen to the ground, half melted and demolished.
At this point, Zenshi didn't even bother mentioning that he was bleeding to death. In fact, he didn't even bother asking her to take him back to the base because in her current state, they'd never make it. The blonde courtesan was trembling, but not from his weight. Her hands and arms were slick with the blood of his wounds. She was terrified.
Tsukuyo's expression was iron, set into a gaze of determination despite her quaking heart.
Suddenly, Zenshi wished he had kept his mother's locket – it would have gone beautifully with her porcelain features, slipped around her neck with his own hands.
"Why are ya always dyin' on me?" she said hoarsely.
"I'm not dying on you," he replied. He tried to continue, but the massive pain that had resided to complete numbness began to return full force. The Yato didn't need to say it, though. Tsukuyo knew full well his meaning, despite denying it with all of her being as she pressed her lips hard to his.
He wasn't dying on her.
He was dying for her.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
The room was very, very white. Pristine, even. He floated in the snowy nothingness, Tsukuyo's hand weightless in his. Eventually, the creams of the walls melded with her light complexion, erasing away her dark kimono and washing her in light.
.: -Three Hours Ago- SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
A pair of strong hands removed Zenshi from Tsukuyo's shoulders. Whether or not Zenshi comprehended the fact that his father and Jenhao had returned for him could not be determined. Tsukuyo, alarmed, made to follow, but a colossal shadow slipped over them.
The Kaientai.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Vaguely, as he slipped back to sleep, he was aware of Tsukuyo's light kiss on the forehead.
.: -Three Hours Ago- SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Mutsu scooped Tsukuyo up, gripping a dropdown ladder. Jenhao and Linter hoisted Zenshi on board, where Sakamoto was surprisingly conducting the most efficient work any of them had ever seen from him.
"He looks like he took a bomb," muttered Linter.
"Excuse my bluntness, sir, but it looks like you should be worrying about yourself before your son," Jenhao murmured. The former Harusame petty officer was right – Zenshi's father looked like he had nearly been sliced in two, but lived to tell the tale. The blood loss made him paler than he already was, but he was seemingly unperturbed. There was little to make father and son less frightening than they already were, and in their current states, they were pale as ghosts that carried the same facial features.
Tsukuyo gripped tight to Mutsu, whose cape was ridden with bullet holes and tears, until they were drawn into one of the merchant company ships.
"What I would give for your mother to be alive," Linter muttered to Mutsu. "This would be a scratch for her to stitch up."
"We'll do what we can," Mutsu replied. The lack of inflection in her voice was typical, but oddly detached. A brief glance out a cracked window — though nothing of Mei, Tabs, or Kamui could be discerned — ended the blanched moment, and Mutsu proceeded to order a long list of equipment and procedures from their first aid unit that Tsukuyo could hardly follow. "I'm not my mother," Mutsu said, "but I can try."
"No pressure has really been applied to his wounds," Sakamoto suddenly noted. Indeed, Zenshi had bled out massive amounts of blood. "Mutsu, can you perform miracles?"
The bespectacled man was uncharacteristically serious, kneeling beside Mutsu and applying pressure to some of Zenshi's smaller wounds.
"Elevate his arm, the one with the biggest cut. And squeeze here," replied his co-captain, ignoring Sakamoto's question as she instructed him to cut off blood flow. "The brachial artery is about here. Try to slow the bleeding."
Zenshi's eyelids fluttered. He didn't quite open his eyes, but he did manage to say something.
"Ice," he muttered through dry lips.
"You heard the man," Mutsu snapped. "Get us some ice."
Anything to help stem the flow of blood so that Mutsu could, as quickly as possible, close up them major wounds and prevent infection. Though Yato bodies were resilient and quick to heal, the large shards of debris and shrapnel had prevented immediate cell re-growth, and the large puncture wounds were bleeding too profusely to close up. With luck, ice would slow bodily functions and prevent him from emptying of all remaining life.
Zenshi, expectedly, found wounds an encumbrance. But in his current state, only his mind wandered freely, for he was severely incapacitated and thus obviously unable to protest Mutsu's efficient administrations. Sakamoto had a death grip just above his right elbow — his fingers had long since gone numb — but that wasn't a bad thing, seeing as the human man was successfully fending off death by exsanguination.
The rattling of the ship indicated fast travel. Zenshi had always had a high pain tolerance, but the frantic click of Tsukuyo's heels back and forth were not at all helpful. If only she would just sit down.
"You feel anything?" Mutsu barked.
"I feel it all," Zenshi grumbled, not even flinching when she every caustically cleansed the attended wounds. "You stitch fast."
"Not as fast as you or Mom, but fast enough. There are things you learn as a former pirate girl."
.: ELEVEN YEARS AGO :.
"So, how many hours did you go with a bullet in your shoulder?" asks the girl with orange hair. He doesn't really answer, only casts a disinterested glance at his bandaged torso. The nurses have certainly overdone themselves this time; he can hardly move an inch, despite the fact that it was just a shoulder wound.
Mei's Inuisei friend shakes her head. "I'm not sure whether to laugh or to cry. You're ridiculous, you know that?"
Kougi has never been a tactless girl, but tends to be as openly blunt as Mei at times.
"There are certain inhibitions I tend to dispense of," Zenshi replies flatly. "Sarcasm restraints included."
"I'm still not sure if I like you," Mei interjects. She leans on Kougi, who has silky Corgi fur like none other. "How 'bout you, Kou-chan?"
"Guys with hair that long are never to be trusted," she says in her little canine yip.
"I'll cut it in his sleep one of these days," Mei decides, the thought churning in her head. "How does that sound, my fellow Yato?"
"That'll be the day you cut off yours," Zenshi answers.
"Deal." Mei holds out her hand to shake. To her surprise, Zenshi grips it with stunning strength. She expects him to simply decline in that demure way of his, but he reaches out and accepts the challenge with what can only be called effortless grace, despite the bandages and the wound.
It's a deal that comes to fruition in a few years.
It's one that neither really forgets, because they know exactly what it means.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
He wondered how much of the white nothingness was himself and how much was just space. He floated in a medium more akin to molasses than water. Each movement elicited a gentle, pin-sized brush against his skin, the wave of an entire effort rolling static across his limbs.
What is a Yato?
Who are you?
Where do you come from?
There was a boy in the mirror, with long, navy-black hair and forlorn eyes. He solemnly wove his hair into a braid, donning a gold, blue, and black uniform branded proudly with the school's insignia on the left breast pocket.
"I killed a man," said the boy.
No, you haven't.
"I killed myself, today," said the boy.
No, you haven't.
"I haven't killed anyone," the boy finally corrected.
Yes, that's true.
"But I'll kill him soon."
A pregnant pause weighted the pinpricks on his skin.
But you'll never truly kill him, will you?
"I wouldn't know that. Would you?" asked the boy. The closer the boy walked, the younger he looked. With each step, it was like Zenshi was approaching a mirror that shaved away years and years. Soon, he was but a child, with a grayed expression and a sky blue Yato umbrella dripping wet with nonexistent rain.
"I don't want to kill him," said little Zenshi.
I know you don't.
But the boy backed away, and the years returned with implacable thirst, clinging to the child form until they were nearly the same height.
Vengefully, the man before him sliced off lengths of hair, chunk by uneven chunk.
"I have killed him."
No, you haven't.
Zenshi wanted to laugh because whoever this man before him thought he was, he wasn't. Evidently, Zenshi had not killed himself — he could not kill himself. He had shed an identity along with his hair, but he hadn't even done it himself. His mother had, with a razor, under midnight's incandescent light, prior to his departure. And even then, he couldn't kill the lingering feelings for his old, old life. He could only lock them away for an extended period of time, emotions latent until a key reintroduced itself into being. Inception was never sudden — things would leak out from time to time.
Anger.
Sadness.
Worry.
Affection.
Resolve.
Four years ago, exchanging deals on a ship, he had let the Yato he vowed to tame loose. But it was never a negative experience after consideration. First, Zenshi had lamented his lack of control. But he realized that identity was not to be sheared from himself, only adapted.
The death of his aunt. He was not fool enough to mistake grief for weakness. He did not trade wish to trade time for memories, or his own livelihood for regret. Some memories would come like gift cards — some remained unspent, unused, never experienced. And some to forever pocket, because he could.
It had been only a few months, but he still recalled lying in the back room of an old woman's shop, attended by a cat Amanto and a robot maid, thinking only of the silver band around Mei's finger. The strongest imagery he could conjure of her was her hair. Once as tangy orange as a sweet tangerine, now pale and strikingly like the sun on an unbearable summer's day. Zenshi didn't pray. He just entrusted her with safety.
Affection, however, never came easily. He had grown too solitary, too detached for such a feeling to leak from his creaky box of emotions. Yet Tabs was like a skittish cat, nervous and young and afraid despite his feigned impertinence. Zenshi, surprised by himself, was never hesitant to take Tabs under his wing. In a way, they both felt safe. There had never been a friendlier person besides his mother before Tabs.
He would be strong. It was an old, familiar feeling. From the time Hosen put him down next to the brilliant genius Kamui. Zenshi, who was nine years Kamui's senior, harbored immutable determination since his childhood years to become a worthy opponent. Upon accepting Kamui's request to join the Harusame, there was a harbinger of change; a shadow severed by simple acceptance. He needn't become strong for Kamui. He simply needed to be strong for himself.
So when more and more emotion began to slip from the once tightly sealed lid of his heart, Zenshi succumbed to more than one of them. He sometimes feared himself. He sometimes hated himself. He loathed others or appreciated them. Having drafted himself as a cold, solitary soldier, the bonds he'd mentally severed began latching onto him again. The boy in the mirror was no different.
Processed in the blink of an eye, Zenshi knew.
"You never could have killed me, anyway," the boy murmured. Closer now, younger now, the little one held up a small box. Placed carefully atop the box, his mother's golden locket.
You're right, I couldn't have.
"So will you take this?" the boy asked. The locket was gone. Just the box, a little treasure chest, closed. The surface was ebony, but made of polished wood. The gold trim appeared faded, worn, but still full of a lingering luster.
It's empty.
"It's never empty."
So he accepted the box, the boy's hands sifting right through his own. As Zenshi backed away from himself, he witnessed the years drawn on again, another inch of hair and another interval of height, from a bloody right eye to haphazardly stitched tissue. A long, white scar across his face, a square jaw, and darker blue eyes. Someone as tall as him, but growing smaller as the gap widened, the hair was shortened, and the uniform donned.
"Look in the box."
He opened it, hesitantly, listening to his own voice.
Inside, a kiseru, simple and familiar.
There was the distant scent of smoke in the air, lingering and ubiquitous.
"Smoking isn't allowed in the hospital," he whispered. His words came out as hardly a croak; his throat was parched.
"This ain't a hospital," she replied, impassively.
"Then open a window," Zenshi said, his hand searching for hers. She wrapped her fingers around his wandering ones, quelling his feeble efforts. Zenshi managed a few coughs to clear his throat. "I'm choking on that smoke even in my dreams."
"Are ya sure," Tsukuyo asked, "it wasn't just the Courtesan o' Death come to claim yer time?"
They exchanged tired smiles, never exactly looking at one another. It was Zenshi who first turned to gaze at her, her silken hair and lavender eyes.
"The Courtesan already spends enough time with me, don't you think?"
.: -Three Hours Ago- SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Mutsu was lying when she said she was not the most skilled medic on this side of the galaxy. Her suturing technique was flawless, even by Zenshi's standards, and the profile of her face as she bent over her cousin, blazing through her work, was so similar to her mother that Zenshi had to look away.
"Uncle, you'd better sit down, too," ordered the brunette Yato. "Tatsuma, hand me those scissors."
Snipping off the end of a thread cleanly, Mutsu moved from wound to wound like a honeybee might from a series of flowers. However, Mutsu all but resembled a honeybee, fervently tasked with saving a man (though he would deny the risk to his life because he was simply that type of man).
"I'll be fine until you're done," Linter replied.
"I insist," Mutsu said through gritted teeth.
"Sit," Zenshi echoed.
"I won't, even if you say it, son," Linter sighed, shaking his head. "You're becoming more and more like your mother, you know that?"
"I meant Tsukuyo. She's driving me crazy." Zenshi, who was barely clinging to consciousness, had enough gall and not enough self-restraint at the moment to hold his tongue. The blonde courtesan, whose heels had in fact been annoying more than just Zenshi, froze midstride.
"If ya haven't seen stars yet, I'll make ya see'em now," she spat defensively. Worry was written all across her typically passive — if not blushing — face.
"If I have your consent, I might as well just go." Zenshi grimaced as Mutsu wound another line of suturing string through his right arm. Though Sakamoto had still been clenching tightly to the main artery in his arm, the damage had been done.
"You don't need my consent. But if you're hanging on, might as well stay for the ride." Mutsu finished closing up another severe laceration. "Do you know how much glass is in your arm?"
"I'd rather not."
Tsukuyo knelt at Zenshi's left as Mutsu worked at his right.
"Ya shouldn't talk," muttered the blonde, though she herself was probably just as pale as he was.
"He's practically immortal," snorted Mutsu. "Look how much blood he's lost."
"I'd rather not," drawled Tsukuyo in her typical accent, though her tone was vehement.
"You should nearly be at stage four hypovolemia," Mutsu noted. Yes, Zenshi's breathing rate had gone up, his blood loss was severe to the point of delayed capillary refill, and his complexion was ghostly, but the fact that he had not fallen unconscious — and was obdurately fighting to stay awake — was beyond her comprehension. It wouldn't have surprised her to see an enduring Yato of the greatest strength succumb to a coma.
"That sounds about right," Zenshi concurred. "Are you done?"
"Patience, dear cousin of mine. We're getting there. Uncle, we may need a blood transfusion. He's dealing with death right here." Mutsu meant to playfully insult Zenshi, to lighten the tense mood, but her cousin simply smiled wanly at her. Linter, who waited patiently and had administered basic first aid for himself and Jenhao, nodded and knelt beside Zenshi, alongside Tsukuyo.
"Hello, son."
A jaded expression crossed Zenshi's face. The pause loitered, as if unwilling to leave the space between father and son. They greeted each other as if they had not been beside one another the entire time.
"Hey, Dad."
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"If this isn't a hospital," Zenshi began, his eyes adjusting to the bright light streaming through the window, "then what is it?"
Tsukuyo, cracking open the window, glanced at him from the corner of her eye. The sunlight that entered made him squint, but he didn't protest despite the slight shiver as the beams lit upon his bare arms. An IV drip was attached to his arm, most likely infusing a blood replacement.
"I lied, it's a hospital." She rolled her eyes and returned to her spot beside him. The indentation in the pressed white sheets at his side indicated she'd been there for a while.
"How long?" he asked.
"Only three or so hours. Ya slept like the dead. Ev'ryone's surprise ya ain't one of'em."
"They were very hospitable, I must say," Zenshi deadpanned, scanning over the blank room. He'd been dressed in hospital gowns — the plain, honeydew-green kind — that seemed to be the norm on every planet. He could feel stitches and bandages restricting him in every limb, over his entire body. Most had probably been redone professionally, seeing as the ones on right arm were redone with neater, thinner sutures. The staff must've been impressed by Mutsu's handiwork, though.
"I'm sure ya received a cordial welcome," Tsukuyo quipped. "Why'd ya turn down such a prestigious offer?"
He smiled.
"Because you weren't invited."
.: -Three Hours Ago- SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
She was secretly relieved when he sighed and closed his eyes, letting the ship fly on its own and allowing Mutsu to work without his strained supervision. And she didn't particularly mind that they all noticed her take his hand and wait, folding her legs beneath her like a feline settling down indefinitely.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
A knock at the door cut off any flustered response that Tsukuyo had spent five seconds trying to come up with. Linter peered inside, his drawn expression so similar to Zenshi's that Tsukuyo attributed a good deal of effort to avoiding his gaze.
"Zenshi."
"Dad." The word came slightly unfamiliar to Zenshi's tongue, but he didn't quite find it uncomfortable or foreign. Out of "Father" and "Sir" and a few others, there was something more welcoming about "Dad" at this point than anything else. An irrefutable belonging.
"There's a Harusame liaison here," Linter announced, still frozen at the room's threshold. "She'd like to speak with you. An issue with protocol, I presume."
"Not the anti-Namawala Ezempi movement?"
"No. I'll handle that."
"Was this ever about retribution for you?" Now, it seemed to Zenshi as if his father had never sought some sort of vengeance against the Harusame for the death of Aunt Chuiliu, his sister-in-law. So complacent was he with this new Harusame relation that Zenshi wondered if the effort had been in vain.
"It always has been. But there are other things to fight for, to devote one's time to. Wouldn't you agree that justice is one of them?" Linter matched Zenshi's level gaze with his own. "There are certain people in this world that you can learn to trust." Linter nodded at Tsukuyo. "And from other worlds, too. And by looking in their eyes, you'll see everything you thought you knew, and everything you do not."
The pardon in Zenshi's heart was peerless.
"Then we shall entrust justice to you, Dad."
"With honor," replied Linter, a small, relieved smile crossing his face. He had been forgiven, even if only by the tiny margin allowed to him by words Zenshi's mother had once uttered on a still but frigid night. He stepped aside, allowing the Harusame liaison on standby to enter the room.
The woman that entered was slim and graceful, meek but full of presence. Long, straight hair, black as the voids of space she traveled through, fell straight down her back, over her shoulder blades.
Her first address startled him. But it was nostalgic, respectful, and spoken with a slight smile.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant."
"Good afternoon, Petty Officer Jinlin."
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
The reception is regal, as expected of one of the most prestigious Yato families to have ever graced their rainy planet. Despite having been the widow of a big-name pirate and related via her sister's marriage to possibly the most influential man throughout the near galaxies, Shidare Chuiliu on her own was known and respected as the city's caretaker. A skilled doctor, nurse, healer, midwife, Zenshi's aunt, and Mutsu's mother, she has a name that permeates the population with fond memories.
Though two years late, the entire family and the community that treasured her pay their respects.
Not a word is spoken.
Only a weeping willow tree sways in the wind, a smooth, almost melodic whistle weaving lightly through its hanging branches.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"The Admiral is less than happy to oblige, but he has offered the most gracious pardon due to the rather unusual circumstances," Jinlin informed him. "There will not, however, be any room for you to return to your position in the 7th Division."
"I wouldn't expect there to be," Zenshi replied. "Mei seems to enjoy her job."
"She is the most vibrant lieutenant we have ever seen," Jinlin offered, the slight twinkle in her eye evident.
"Take care of her."
"Of course." Jinlin paused, looked over a few official papers they had to review simply for records' sake. "On account of treason and mutiny, former Lieutenant Zenshi and all following crewmembers" — Jinlin quickly ran through crewmen who had presumably bore the same silver ring around their fingers as the rest of the resistance — "shall be officially pardoned by the Harusame. All named, excluding Zenshi, will retain their statuses on the 7th Division's crew. The Harusame will withdraw all involvement with the Sciuttlan war, on terms drawn out by President Linter of the Andromeda-Centaurus Allegiance." A pause. "I could go on, but you probably get the gist."
"Basically, your dad pulled some major strings and we're all home free." A familiar voice entered the room, followed by the smiling faces of Mei and Tabs. Mei was absolutely drenched — "A mainline water pipe burst and I was caught under it," she claimed — and Tabs was splattered with Amanto blood that was definitely not his own, thankfully.
"You two sure caught up to me quickly," sighed Jinlin, not even bothering to turn as the two marched into the room. "Done so soon?"
"The Allegiance is a thing to be feared," Tabs commented sagely, ignoring the question.
"No kidding," snorted Mei. "If it intimidates Admiral Nincompoop, it must be hugely powerful."
"His reasoning is along the lines of, 'If I get into too much trouble, I won't be able to fight strong people,' or something like that," Tabs went on.
"That, and—"
"Your voice is painful to listen to," snarled Zenshi, who had been propped up to sitting position by the helpful hand of Tsukuyo.
"Well somebody recovered quickly," came the quick reply, accompanied by a caustic glare.
"Of course, Lieutenant. Would you expect anything less?"
"All right then, peasant, let's get up and go for a run then."
"Oya, oya," murmured Zenshi, "are you sure about that?"
"I'm the peasant," Tabs broke in. An awkward lack of follow-through on this addition suddenly broke into laughter all around. Tabs shrugged and rubbed his chin, a goofy smile laden on his features.
"Hey chickie," Mei said, abruptly directing her focus to Tsukuyo. "Make sure this idiot doesn't go around with bullets in his shoulders, m'kay?"
Tsukuyo began to answer, but Mei cut her off to say one more thing.
"But don't keep me updated. I'm not holdin' my breath."
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
The place is comfortably tucked amongst the lines of Yato homes, urban and crowded. They are considered quite wealthy, and thus they can afford a bigger place — though that simply makes it lonelier — complete with its own spacey sidewalks and a shop out front that the main occupant runs as a local bakery and pastries shop. The locals say she makes a mean blueberry cobbler.
"A bakery?" Tsukuyo asks, nearly tripping over a discarded pipe and sending it clattering down the next alley.
"A bakery," he confirms, squeezing her hand.
It's early afternoon, and the usual line is just as long as he remembers it being. He used to weave his way through that same line if Hosen let him out early, all those years ago, slipping to the side entrance that opens into a small mudroom.
"It looks like it'll be a wait," he tells Tsukuyo. "It's worth it, though."
"Worth as much as blue papayas with yella' polka dots?"
"Worth far more," he promises, letting slip from his box of emotions an affectionate smile. "Probably more than space-jellyfish's tongue."
"That must be sayin' a lot," Tsukuyo notes, a quirky smile on her lips. She doesn't really look at him as they stand in line, only converses every now and then about the different people they see, the surprisingly nice weather, the less murky but still cloudy skies, and the willow tree planted down the road.
She admires the number of Yato children, the old grandmothers and doting daughters. A family that saunters out of bakery — a mother, an older son, and a wobbling toddler girl with her hair pulled back in buns — catches her eye.
"She's looks like Kagura," Tsukuyo says.
"Kagura used to live over there, down that street." Zenshi points down towards where the willow tree is planted. "My aunt used to take care of her sick mother."
Tsukuyo nods, absorbing everything on the foreign planet eagerly. Their position in the line creeps closer to the bakery, the aroma of sweet goods wafting their way. The urge to simply pause and enjoy the smells is enticing, but Zenshi insists that they go in. Tsukuyo, fully convinced that he wants to buy her a pie — how charming, she thinks — shakes her head and follows him inside.
The bakery is very open but also incredibly cozy. Several alcoves for booths line the far end, and café tables up near the display aisles — filled with bread loaves of all shapes, sizes, and types, and lined with cakes and pastries and everything imaginable — are all neatly arranged and primarily occupied. If the foyer-like entrance isn't stunning enough, there's even a sunroom of floor-to-ceiling length windows. The one wall is inlaid with shelves hosting books; a library of sorts. There are people curled up on window sills, which are large and finely furnished, reading books and nibbling on croissants.
"'This is amazin'," whispers Tsukuyo. "It's beautiful."
She drifts along the line, guided only by her arm linked around Zenshi's. Several young Yato, probably only young teens, bustle about in aprons. As employees, they are marked by their white shifts, navy blue belts, and name badges. One girl, a bright, older girl with a toothy smile, asks if she can take their order once they are up to the front.
"Pick whatever you'd like," Zenshi says as he leans down. His voice brushes by her ear, his breath tickling her neck.
"Ya expect me to choose?" she asks loudly, incredulously. Tsukuyo, slightly abashed by her outburst, glances around before returning to her array of choices.
"Take your time," chirps the cashier girl. She flashes Zenshi a grin — one that Tsukuyo mistakes as flirtatious, causing a bristle of irritation to wash through her — of recognition. "I can call out Madame. She makes the best recommendations."
It's a way for Tsukuyo and Zenshi to step aside and allow the girl to continue taking up orders. Tsukuyo flushes slightly, having held up the line for a good extra minute or two.
"Sure," she mumbles. "Thanks."
"Don't be shy," Zenshi tells her.
"I'm not."
He shakes her head, and she elbows him. Not hard, but well in the ribs. He grimaces, but just for show.
The Yato girl calls out into a back room, presumably a kitchen area. An older woman, the "Madame" she had denoted earlier, wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron and hurries out, seeming not to mind the fact that her busy work in the back has been interrupted. Almost robotically, and without even looking up, she begins to tell Tsukuyo the day's specialties and of course, her signature blueberry cobbler.
"The cobbler is the most popular, so I would hurry and snag one before they're gone," she says. She glances up briefly, only catching sight of Tsukuyo and her obviously foreign attire. "A visitor, I see. In that case, I strongly recommend the cobbler. It was my son's favorite."
Tsukuyo, who wants badly to try just about everything, smiles because the woman is soft albeit very busy. The passion she devotes to her time and work is evident, even in the way she addresses a mere pastry. She takes an immediate liking to this woman, this Madame of the bakery. Perhaps it's her full lashes and round, heart-shaped face, framed with a few strands of mousy brown hair slowly aged with gray. There is something familiar and comforting in her long, straight nose and thin lips, a tenderness in that subtle smile. She has a swift yet graceful way of gesturing that Tsukuyo has hard time watching because it's reminiscent of something, someone she can't place her finger on.
Zenshi touches the blonde's elbow. She nods, having decided on the famous cobbler as her final choice. When Tsukuyo looks up at him, he has this oddly amused little smile on his face, one eyebrow raised slightly. He's very handsome then, through the scars and the severe angles. She admires those features, for they balance sharp with soft. Her gaze falls from his dark hair to his eyes, to his straight nose and thin lips and the tenderness in his subtle smile…
Tsukuyo blinks slowly; a phantom of something indescribable passes over her. Zenshi squeezes her hand, drawing her slightly closer.
"If the cobbler's not your favorite, the peach pie is also highly recommended," the woman continues, gesturing to a fresh batch of pies that a boy rolls out. "Or, if you're looking for something smaller to take with you, try the—"
"Ma."
Madame stutters mid-sentence. Most of her employees have slowed, watching the exchange between their employer and guests. After the cashier girl recognized Zenshi, most of the older Yato followed suit.
When the Yato woman looks up, her fingers are quivering. She has to put down the little box of cupcakes she was about to offer, because otherwise she would drop them.
As the connection clicks for both Tsukuyo and the woman, the instantaneous exclamations of shock are enough to send half the employees giggling behind their hands. Tsukuyo almost immediately zips her mouth again because the Madame is trying to process what seems inconceivable to her, while Tsukuyo is simply amazed.
"Zen," the lovely Yato lady finally manages.
Her son lays a warm, calloused, familiar hand on hers.
"Blueberry cobbler will be perfect," he says. A genuine smile graces his face. "It's still my favorite, after all."
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
East Tomokaz was salvaged, to say the least. As soon as the rebellion overtook the armed forces by chance of miracle – Jenhao's diligent tactics, derived from the late Ensign Delong's military brilliance, along with Linter's impressive command allowed them to storm the terminal and seize control. Once the main airway was cut off, the main government forces retreated, and the city breathed.
The war would not end for quite some time, but the status quo was broken. The ever-inspirational Sciuttlan queen of the rebels, Uhuru, rallied her people and broke through uncharted limits of nationalism. Self-pride and self-protection, she preached, would win this war against tyrants. No longer were they staggering at a stalemate with massive casualties on either side – here was the change they called for. This battle was the catalyst.
Namawala Ezempi, their fearsome adversary, feared not the power of the Allegiance and certainly did not even blink in the face of the rebellion.
But the sun would rise.
And then, he shall hold his breath.
.: OCTOBER, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO :.
"I want two of the petty officers to accompany Zenshi to the bridge." Abuto's voice echoed in his mind, the same line repeating over and over until it shimmered like a curtain over Kamui's following taunts. "Zenshi, you're making the calls this time."
The bland glance that the young man returned evoked a few chuckles from the rest of the Yato. The two women – Mei and Jinlin – that had congregated at his side by order of their vice-captain, hid knowing smiles beneath impressive façades. Had Zenshi been a more expressive person, there would have been a much more pained look on his face.
"Oh Zen," laughed Kamui, "that means you have to talk."
A grin split the redhead's features. Zenshi pushed the image out of his head because nothing was real to him. Kamui's smile, his lighthearted comments meant to hit somewhere harder; they all covered up the captain's own insecurities.
Zenshi knew.
And that was why he would never be allowed to return.
But mutiny was a story for another day.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"As soon as my ships are repaired, we'll take you back to Earth," Mutsu said. "They work quickly here in Sciuttla. The best mechanics have, fortunately, sided with Uhuru's rebellion."
"Your ships? Those are my ships, Mutsu!" exclaimed Sakamoto indignantly. As a human whose immune system had been caught unawares by the various alien viruses, Sakamoto suffered from an excruciatingly stuffy cold. His voice was nasally and he sniffled constantly, but most of all he was annoying. Mutsu had a typical quality about her that boasted high tolerance of most things, but with Sakamoto she drew the line early.
"Shut up, Tatsuma," she snapped. "Go blow your nose."
"I told you, it's stuffed!" replied the brown-haired man. He shoved his sunglasses further up his nose, as if that would help decongest his sinuses. "Not snotty, just stuffed!"
"Go blow your nose," repeated his vice-captain, clearly irritated. Sakamoto simply sulked, dragging himself over to a tissue box and unceremoniously sneezing into it. Mutsu rolled her eyes.
Earlier, Mei had viciously – but good-naturedly – flaunted a series a teases, calling Mutsu and Sakamoto a darling couple. Mei had been in danger of a broken nose and a concussion until Zenshi intervened and managed to reconstruct the conversation to something safer. Mei retained a glint in her eye that suggested her antics were far from over. But they waited, partially in trepidation, mostly with shields on.
"As I was saying," Mutsu continued, "as soon as you're cleared and my ships are travel-ready, we'll go. Any objections?"
Her gaze browsed the group of five guests the Kaientai had brought to Sciuttla – Zenshi, Tsukuyo, and the three Hyakka (whose names Zenshi still couldn't quite get straight). After nearly a week of Zenshi in recovery and the Hyakka aiding the rebels in reconstruction of the city, they were ready to leave. They all shook their heads, prepared for the return home. Tsukuyo never commented about what "home" meant. It was implied that Zenshi would go back with her, although he was practically in the same unemployed state as a MADAO.
"I've seen enough color," one of the Hyakka women whispered. "It's pretty, but now it's like rainbow vomit."
The others nodded in unison.
"That settles it, then." Mutsu stood. "Get yourself wrapped up good and packed. Ship's nearly done, so we'll be getting ready, too."
"And the Harusame?" Zenshi asked.
"Leaving," Mutsu threw over her shoulder. "They're going to their home base. The big ship. Good riddance, if you ask me."
"Good riddance," Zenshi echoed.
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
The blueberry cobbler will have to wait because Madame throws her arms around the son that has to lean down so she can reach around his neck. She is halfway between sobs and laughter, or laughter and sobs; Tsukuyo cannot tell, but she can appreciate the reunion.
"I didn't recognize you in your uniform," Zenshi's mother whispers. Madame, as Tsukuyo will take to calling her as well, is small and slim but looks like an elegant orchid. The light brown hair bears a stunning resemblance to Mutsu's – the relation is rather clear between aunt and niece. But most of all, it's her nose and lips that Tsukuyo recognizes, inherited clear as day on Zenshi. Where her tall Yato companion has severe lines from his father, his mother is supple, young, soft. Where Linter has not given Zenshi fiercer, larger lines, his mother has given a graceful, finely chiseled profile and thinner lips. Tsukuyo sees it, and she drinks it in with a thirst that ensnares delight in her heart.
"And you're so tall," adds Madame. Tears are running freely and without shame down her cheeks, mostly hidden because she is still holding onto her son. Or rather, Zenshi holds onto her. "Look how much you've grown."
Then, as if Tsukuyo is suddenly bathed in light, Madame's eyes brighten as her gaze shifts to her son's female companion, dressed in an Earthling's Japanese kimono and graced with skin golden in comparison to the pale Yato. The elated smile on Madame's face is overwhelming — it is an expression that could melt hearts and beget joys in the hearts of all.
"You always keep your promises, don't you?" she murmurs fondly. "And with interest, too."
"I recall you requesting that I bring whoever it was I met home," Zenshi replies easily. Tsukuyo opens her mouth to say something, her fingers itching to grab her kiseru and take a long drag because this is so much to take in, but he cuts her off. "And here she is. This is Tsukuyo, the protector and queen of Yoshiwara."
Suddenly his arm is around her waist, strong and warm, and he pulls them closer than they already are. The blonde stiffens, but discovers that their bodies have a certain puzzle-piece fit that naturally holds them together. The fabric of his blue uniform, stripped of Harusame badges and fitted with his two of his own — one, an olive wreathe encompassing a circle of two arching comets, like yin and yang, for the Andromeda-Centaurus Allegiance, and the second bearing his father's crest — is smooth against her cheek. Quickly, Tsukuyo brushes the hair from her face and offers a somewhat abashed smile at Zenshi's mother.
Madame grasps her hand.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Tsukuyo. Please, enjoy whatever you'd like."
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"There is one request I have for you before you leave," Linter said to his son, who was dressed for travel in a dark cloak, ready to embark on one of the Kaientai's fully repaired ships. "Will you accept it?"
Zenshi cast a dubious but considerate glance at his father.
"Depends on the request. Acceptance will be conditional."
"Fine," agreed Linter. Face to face with his son, who equaled him with impressive height and square shoulders, Linter held out a badge. Any pretense of apprehension immediately dropped like a wall of ice crashing down into the waters, its base deteriorated and the blasé nonchalance shaken.
A golden eagle, wings outstretched, balancing Linter's family crest between its curved, embracing feathers.
"This is—"
"A request for you to become Secretary General of the Allegiance."
Zenshi, tired of being at a loss for words all the time, could only stare.
"The Secretary General is supposed to be elected. I know you serve as the figurehead of all the councils and all the assemblies, but this is—"
"Not official," Linter corrected quickly. "More of an apprentice."
At the word, Zenshi blanched visibly, so again his father attempted to make amends the best he could. Given the fact that his son was not as hostile as he had been upon their first reunion in years, Linter bolstered this resolve with substantial confidence.
"Apprentice doesn't sound quite right," he admitted. "More like a de facto 'heir' to the seat of sorts. Things in the councils don't always go as planned, but you are far more capable than most of the representatives. I'm sure you'd recognize quite a few of them."
"I'm a former Harusame lieutenant," Zenshi pointed out emphatically. "I doubt they'd like a pirate to be amongst their higher echelons."
Linter grimaced. "No, certainly not, but at least consider the offer as you travel home. And I'll mention that this won't take you away from Earth if you don't wish to leave it. The Edo Bakufu has general embassy ties with the Allegiance — should you accept, the central Amanto delegation will eagerly open office for you."
"Why are you telling me this?" Zenshi rolled the pin in his fingers. It would, he supposed, actually go quite well where his old lieutenant's stars used to be. And he could tear off that horrid Harusame crest from his shoulder and patch on the Allegiance crown as well. But the true issue remained in how his father had been so perceptive and so willing to offer him a high seat in what was the greatest intergalactic organization of all time. Though named after the most prominent galaxies, Earth, its solar system, and the Milky Way were firmly secured and warmly welcomed under the wing of the Allegiance.
"Son," Linter said, a deliberate glint in his eyes the mirror of Zenshi's own, "you seem to forget who I am."
"I would never," Zenshi replied, a quick, lupine grin flashing across his face. Linter appeared pleased to see the reaction, clapping a hand fondly on his son's shoulder.
"And your conditions?" Forever diligent and attentive, Linter followed through all of his negotiations with consideration and expertise.
"They're easy," Zenshi told his father. He glanced at the sky and said, "Go visit Ma. How long has it been since you last saw her?"
The deluge of forlorn regret that crossed Linter's face was one of the last things Zenshi needed to truly relinquish any former — unreasonable — grudges he held against his father. Linter had never truly left them, and he'd certainly never abandoned them in a quest for power and prestige. He simply protected what he thought needed protecting, and if it meant the balance of several galaxies laid in his hands, then that was what he devoted his efforts to.
But he'd never forgotten his first passion, his first home and hearth and family.
"Not since you graduated," confessed the diplomat. All of a sudden, years coagulated on Linter's face. He was fatigued and full of worry lines, his sharp angles drawn darker by shadows beneath his eyes and dull blue irises. Liveliness would surely return to him, Zenshi knew. Just somewhere else, with someone else, in another time and situation.
"I'll take the job," Zenshi announced. "In fact, I'm grateful for it. But you have to keep your end of the promise, too."
"Of course, son." Linter paused, offering a hand. To his immense surprise, Zenshi grasped his hand and then pulled his father in for an embrace. Before the younger Yato uttered a word, Linter broke in. "Don't apologize, Zenshi. It's a sign of weakness. But if I am forgiven by our own decision, then that is all I will need."
Zenshi clapped a hand on his father's shoulder, mirroring the latter's earlier gesture.
"There is nothing of you I have forgiven, for you've never done me wrong, Dad."
Because I've come to terms with what I've created of you. And the conclusion is that it was my own denial that created a false identity. I know you and I know myself.
"We're in mutual agreement, then? I—"
Zenshi shook his head, grinning.
"Politicians are talkative, but you're not the type to ramble. Just go visit Ma, will you?"
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
"I can't believe you're the Secretary General of the Allegiance," Kougi exclaims, duly impressed by Zenshi's roomy office and mahogany desk. The Yato thinks the entire shebang is a bit much, what with aides running about at his beck and call, the phones ringing without much time between conversations, and a hundred employees scuttling to and fro for him at one glance at the badge he wears.
Kougi, who is still the Inuisei's main envoy, has been promoted to work in the central Edo office instead of that dingy little passport-checking site out in the southwest. She is no stranger to Zenshi's office and is fond of giving him updates on the Harusame. The Allegiance keeps keen eyes on the crime syndicate, sometimes creeping so close that the dark shadows that lead the entire organization feel suffocated. While the old Admiral had often choked and sputtered, Kamui now nonchalantly dodges officers of law like roaches from the exterminators.
"It's been a month," continues the canine woman, "and I still can't get over how nice you have it."
Zenshi often lets her prattle away, in the meantime completing copious amounts of paperwork — which he can never loathe, for some reason — because her quick clip reminds him of Mei, whose mouth never closed. It is a crass reason, seeing as Zenshi often grows irritated when someone wears his ears out, but Kougi has too merry a personality to really grate on his nerves. It is a talent that Mei shares, despite the Yato woman's propensity for taking it one step further and purposefully making jabs at him.
"Zen!" Kougi claps a letter down on his desk. "It's from Mei!"
A puffy white tail wags beneath Kougi's long skirt, and her pointed Corgi ears prick at the sight of the letter. She urges Zenshi to hurry and open it. He does.
Dear stupid Lieutenant,
I hope you're doing well.
"She doesn't hope I'm doing well in the least," mutters Zenshi, before continuing to read out loud for the sake of Kougi, who is too excited to attempt reading upside-down.
No, just kidding, I don't hope you're doing well. In fact, I hope you sit at a desk so long your behind goes numb and you won't be able to walk. And then we can wheel you down ramps without the brakes on your wheelchair and you can go flying into the next asteroid belt we pass. By the way, there are many asteroid belts here. Unless we've been passing the same one like five times.
"How nice of her," Zenshi comments.
"That's Mei for you." Kougi grins. She tries to skim as Zenshi reads because his lack of inflection doesn't quite mesh with the tone of Mei's letter. The Inuisei is able to tag along briefly, but mostly just listens.
Tabs and I have this game where we pretend we don't understand the Earthlings and simply do what he calls the Lieutenant-isn't-paying-attention nod. Whoever pisses off the most Kiheitai members by the end of the month wins. He likes to think he's winning because I'm buds with some of the officers, making it harder for me to actually piss them off because they know I actually talk plenty. I'm not saying you never talked, but well…you never talked.
Much.
Actually, weren't you especially talkative around that chickie? How's she doing, by the way? Are you married yet? Got kids? Oh wait, it's only been like two months, just kidding.
And your stupid Allegiance cops are always on our tail. Back off, man. This was supposed to be a letter of negotiation. We're always moving quietly, and you ruin everything.
You ruin everything.
"Did she write that twice or did you just repeat it?"
"She wrote it twice."
"Of course. Who's chickie?"
"A friend."
"A friend?"
Zenshi waves off Kougi's curious smile.
Besides that, the fact that Jenhao works with Linter is a bummer because he knows our secrets. Kamui was pretty mad when Jenhao refused to return. But I did get to meet his kid. Cute kid, really. Looks just like him.
Anyway, I'm actually not just doing a stupid status report, I'm here to tell you that the Harusame will willingly violate any torpedo sanctions and defy all intergalactic laws because we are the Harusame and you don't mess with space pirates.
Don't worry, as Lieutenant Mei of the 7th Division, I do not make a habit of writing so casually in all my letters. I didn't graduate from a greenhouse for nothing.
This was just for you. And for Kougi because I'm sure she works there. I checked.
Kougi snorts; it sounds like a half-bark half-yip sort of noise.
Okay, here goes nothing. I hate this stuff, but I've read over your letters enough to know the yadda-yadda and the blah-blah.
Oh, and I don't write these by hand. That would take too long. I also can't deal with a pen and paper like you can. It's all Jinlin now.
"She hasn't changed, has she?" chuckles Kougi.
"Seven years, and only a haircut has changed," agrees Zenshi.
On behalf of the Harusame 7th Division, I, Lieutenant Mei under direct command of Admiral Kamui, request that the Andromeda-Centaurus Allegiance refrain from warmongering activities in the passage of any Harusame ship through Allegiance territories. Should any of our vessels be attacked, there shall be no hesitation in retaliation.
Basically, we don't want to mess up neutral codes any more than you do, so just look away for a bit, okay? I know you're all justice and what with chickie and her Hyakka and Yoshiwara business, but one time you were a pirate, too, and one time you made these requests with me breathing down your neck. So.
Don't have a good year, you hear? Sit until you have no legs and I'm free to conquer the Earth.
Lieutenant Mei.
"Was that a threat to Edo?" asks Kougi.
Zenshi stares at the paper for a good second or two.
"Nah."
.: JULY - A Time Far in the Future - :.
"I hate rain. And there's a new billboard in the way. Is it new?"
"I'll have them take it down."
"They'd better."
"Go study your history."
"I don't wanna study no hist'ry."
Zenshi glances up from his paperwork.
"Study. Or Seita will be your next tutor."
"Seita-nii doesn't know none of his hist'ry. He's only good at math."
Zenshi shakes his head and gestures for her to step away from the window. She does.
"And who do you think taught him his math?"
She rolls her eyes.
"I don't need math, I need hist'ry."
Her accent is endearing and pleading, but he doesn't relent. She's as headstrong as the woman who carried her, eager to explore and discover and identify her own self.
"Ask your mother."
"But Ma is awful at teaching."
Zenshi glares at the girl, who plops herself down at the round meeting table.
"Study."
She relents, rolling her eyes.
"Only until it stops raining, okay?"
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Sciuttla diminished in one fell swoop before their eyes. The three Hyakka, somewhat harangued after a week of helping run a recovery center for injured rebels, were relieved to see the planet disappear. There had been enough colorful Amanto and blackened blood to last them a lifetime.
Jenhao, who would stay under the command of Linter, grew smaller and smaller as the Kaientai climbed up the shaft of a departure terminal. The Yato was a tiny figure below, one arm in a sling after taking the brunt of a laser, and the other raised in solemn salute, briefly, before he turned back to Linter and Uhuru, who were also present to see their short-term allies return home.
"Boss," whispered one of the Hyakka. "Did we ever accomplish what we came to do?"
Tsukuyo deliberately answered with a perfectly straight face.
"Most likely," she answered.
The three Hyakka exchanged glances.
"What does that mean, exactly?" ventured the shortest one. Zenshi had long since given up on their names — Hotaru, maybe? — and named them by height and hair length.
"I'm thinkin' it'll be more quiet on the alien front," Tsukuyo offered. Again, confused glances.
"Boss," whispered the first again. "So we really haven't done anything, have we?"
"Sure did," retorted Tsukuyo indignantly. "We fought in a rebellion."
"And the Harusame won't terrorize Yoshiwara?"
Tsukuyo looked to Zenshi. Zenshi pointedly looked out the window, eliciting a sour frown from the blonde courtesan.
"I'd say so, yes." Tsukuyo folded her arms beneath her bosom and waited for her glare to burn a hole in Zenshi's neck. When he still didn't turn and the Hyakka felt intrusive just waiting there, she relinquished the effort. For now. "We got caught up in a lotta things, but we found the endin' we were lookin' for."
"I'd say so," muttered Mutsu, who had been sitting balefully in the corner for some time now. "At the cost of my ship."
"It's my ship!" Sakamoto cried. No one paid the poor man any attention. His complaints became diurnal chirps of wildlife, despite the fact that they were in a space ship traveling across universes and slipping through what must've been wormholes that defied all human concepts of space and time.
"I don't know what the point of that trip even was. Did we sell anything?" Mutsu snapped at one of her men.
"We sold a good portion of scrap metal from the damaged ship." The crewman referred to the massive amount of vessel that Kamui had singlehandedly thrown into shambles.
"But those profits went to repairs," Mutsu replied, indignantly. "This was all worthless."
"I'm sure my father will fund you and your endeavors," Zenshi threw in nonchalantly.
"Uncle is generous, sure, but I don't want your generosity." Mutsu added onto Tsukuyo's still-present glare.
"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed," sang Sakamoto. Again, though mostly ignored, Mutsu did offer the man some solace in that she threw her hat at him.
"Whatever," Mutsu growled. "So long as you all finished something you came to do, I guess all is well in the end."
And they had. The two suitcases full of money that Zenshi had successfully transferred — they had been guzzled Harusame funds, donated through accounts that Zenshi still knew the codes to and Linter had somehow gotten his hands on — to Sciuttlan rebellion relief forces. Over a thousand refugees so far had been shuttled across the planet or out into neighboring planets offering safety camps for the duration of the civil war. And that was only within the short time that Zenshi had been present.
Whether it was for Zenshi to deliver his package or for Tsukuyo to ward away the Harusame, their quest had come to a close.
And either way, through Linter's true devotion to the cause and the support of many sympathizers, for Sciuttla there was more than enough hope for Uhuru's freedom rally to succeed.
For the travelers, however, Sciuttla was but a tiny speck in the distance, home to something they had trouble recalling, but no problem knowing.
A few hours into their takeoff, after Mutsu had ambled back to the bridge and the Hyakka women found themselves playing a disinterested game of cards, Zenshi motioned for Tsukuyo to follow her down a hall.
"You saw me die," he said bluntly.
"Ya didn't quite die," she responded.
"Did you think I wasn't conscious?"
Her guard was up, but all over the place, prone to disseminate as soon as he probed hard enough. Tsukuyo's impressive glare was enough to deter most people from proceeding on the train of thought, but Zenshi was not most people.
"What are ya talkin' about." Not question; an apprehensive statement.
"When you did it. Did you think I was unconscious, then?"
"Did what?" Tsukuyo's face traded a pale doll's complexion for a cherry's blush.
"Did this." Zenshi cupped Tsukuyo's cheek in his hand and pressed his lips to hers, fingers trailing into her hair and pulling loose straw-gold strands until they tickled her neck. Unable to reciprocate until she regained her senses, Tsukuyo could only flush deep red in the cheeks and attempt to figure out where she could put her hands.
Finally, she decided simply to wrap her arms around his neck and let her inhibitions go — there was no urgent need to really think about it at all.
She just kissed him back.
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
There is much catching up to do, but Madame listens with attentive love, her eyes sparkling and her hands wrapped around a mug of cider. The bakery is also a café, and the proprietress finds its delightful that Tsukuyo tastes the space-jellyfish's tongue without any hesitation at all.
"Madame," calls one of the girls, a new one standing at the cash register. "Shall we put out the afternoon tea and scones?"
"Please do. I'll be right there."
"Don't worry, we're handling well." The girl smiles, hoping to allow their kind employer just a few hours of freedom because there is no one who works as hard as Madame, no one who cherishes the work like she does. "Besides, we are far from short-staffed."
At this, Zenshi's mother frowns because the back room must have been lonely without their head chef, but so far no complaints have arisen. Tsukuyo, stuffed full with blueberry cobbler and space-jellyfish, follows the woman's gaze.
"I thought someone called in sick," Madame says.
"We took on some quick help," replies the girl cheerily. "He knows how things run around here, so we're fine."
Zenshi smiles when he catches a glimpse of who is behind those spinning doors, but diverts his gaze to the warm tea mug in front of him.
"Did you tell him not to—"
"Not to stir the batter counterclockwise because your great-grandmother superstitiously believed in stirring the other way?"
Standing there, with a group of positively thrilled young Yato clustered at his side like a copse of trees, is Linter. Zenshi's father appears ridiculous, one arm dusted white with flour and the other with a box of what looked like cupcakes balanced on his waist.
"Are you all trying to give me heart attacks?" cries Madame incredulously, standing. This time, she practically flies over to her return visitor, arms thrown recklessly around her husband's neck.
"Don't blame me if I drop these," Linter warns, juggling the cupcakes while wrapping an arm around her.
"Politicians don't run away from responsibilities," Zenshi deadpans, sipping his tea.
"You should be helping out your mother," Linter answers.
Tsukuyo bursts into laughter. Immediately, she coughs and stutters as she tries to cover her sudden amusement. Still sitting next to Zenshi, a full adult in his own right, she cannot help but laugh at the fact that his family is just like her own. She sees Hinowa in Madame, who passes accusatory but loving glowers between her husband and son. Zenshi might as well become Seita, the way he's subtly mouthing off to his father. And in Tsukuyo's kind but guarded personality she can see a little bit in Linter, who, as the most powerful man in this cluster of stars, also has a soft side for his family.
They are but a mother, a father, and a son, with too much lost time to take back, but much time left to cherish.
.: JULY - A Time Far in the Future - :.
"Don't stay out too late," Tsukuyo calls, seeing the girl dodge out the door from the corner of her eye. The young, fleeting creature brushes past Seita, who carries a load of laundry in a basket bigger than his upper body. The near-crash makes Tsukuyo cringe, but she doesn't scold anyone.
"I won't," promises the girl. She has soft lavender eyes like her mother, but a complexion that melds easily into the night. With dark hair and dark clothes, the young warrior girl of Yoshiwara ducks out and through the streets.
"Did she tell you where she was going?" asks Zenshi, looking up from his papers.
"Not up to the surface, I told'er," Tsukuyo answers. "Why?"
"Nothing," Zenshi says, waving the topic off nonchalantly. "She forgot her umbrella, that's all."
"That girl forgets everythin'." Tsukuyo shakes her head as she drops a few chopped carrots into a saucepan. "She'd better be home for dinner."
"Tsukuyo-nee, something is burning." Seita, who is taller than Tsukuyo now, sniggers over the top of the laundry basket. A kunai whizzes his way, but he sidles out of its path just in time. "The sun's been strong lately," he continues, setting down the basket. "Will she be okay?"
"It's rather cloudy," Zenshi tells him. "She'll be fine."
"Thick skin," notes Tsukuyo whilst unceremoniously dumping burnt condiments into the trash. "That girl's tough, Seita. Don't go worryin' yerself bald."
"Oh, I'm far from bald." Seita grins.
The late afternoon errands are run — Seita finishes the laundry, Zenshi wraps up his office work, and Tsukuyo makes a fine, edible meal — and they settle for dinner. By then, the girl has diligently kept track of time and returned.
"Somethin' smells burnt," she chirps upon reentry. "But it's an old kinda burnt, like ya tried to air it out for a while."
She has keen senses and a sharp tongue, two things she has inherited and displayed with bold ease.
"The house is still intact, so we're all good," quips Seita. He dodges another kunai.
"We should build a space house. Like, a house with a huge station on top where ships can land." The girl beams, brushing her dark hair back from her eyes.
"We ain't got use for a space station," Tsukuyo replies blandly.
"Are we ever goin' into space? People visit us, but we never visit them." There is a sly pout on the girl's face that everyone — well, almost everyone — has learned to look away from.
"No," Tsukuyo says.
"Eventually," Zenshi replies at the same time.
The girl rolls her eyes.
"Can we just agree on somethin'? Please?"
Tsukuyo, who is about to deny her even that, is silenced by a sudden crash of thunder outside and the tremble of rain, pattering heavily outside.
"It's a good thing ya came home when ya did," the blonde courtesan transitions seamlessly. "Yer poor umbrella feels left out."
The girl harrumphs and grabs the parasol, a blue one, and leans it against her chair.
"I won't forget, now."
She beams, and there is a little bit of light and a little bit of warmth that convinces her family that there is something worth more than vacation out there in space.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"We ain't goin' into space ever again," Tsukuyo declared adamantly upon touching ground in Edo. Her heels clicked decisively against the terminal tiles, dodging people like it was an Olympic sport.
"Even if I asked?" Zenshi said dryly.
"Even if ya asked." She stormed out past customs, despite the several security officers chasing after her. Zenshi flashed a badge – the eagle was already serving him just fine – and they stammered a few apologetic lines before retreating to their desks.
"Tsukuyo." He grabbed her forearm.
Startled, one because he typically never called her directly and two because his contact was strong, Tsukuyo wheeled around on a heel.
"What?"
"You're going in the wrong direction."
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
"I still can't believe you didn't bring any souvenirs," Seita pouts, arms crossed over his thin chest as if he is the Shogun himself.
"Souvenirs from where?" asks Hinowa, snorting. She is preparing a hotpot dinner while Seita, the typical but beloved nuisance, provides commentary. "He just works downtown, Seita."
"Bring me downtown souvenirs! Like dango, or something."
Zenshi doesn't even frown; he just stares at the boy like he has grown two heads.
"Ya have all the dango ya want here," Tsukuyo tells the boy.
"Nah." Seita smiles smugly. He's picked up a few habits from Zenshi – many often do – and the fact that Zenshi started a rather amusing idiosyncrasy of using "nah" overly casually is not helping anyone's case. In fact, when Tsukuyo is dead serious and desires his opinion, "nah" is the last thing she wants to hear. But Zenshi just has that way of putting her in an off mood – not quite angry but not cuddly and soft, either.
Zenshi flicks his umbrella and it smacks Seita's leg under the table. The boy yelps.
"Ow! What was that for?! That hurt!" he exclaims sourly.
"Nah." Zenshi smiles.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
Almost as if she had a sixth sense, Hinowa was out and about, actively wheeling in her chair as she anticipated their arrival. Seita, who immediately picked up on his mother's change in routine, bounded outside to see Tsukuyo and Zenshi casually making their way down the road whilst three Hyakka tittered endlessly beside them.
"Tsukuyo-nee! Zenshi!" Seita practically tripped over himself as he hurtled down the avenue, still quiet in the daytime. While Tsukuyo allowed the boy to wrap his arms around her, Zenshi effectively dodged and instead gave the boy a face full of umbrella. When Seita complained, Tsukuyo hushed him sharply because though Zenshi was probably too tired to actually deal with Seita at the moment, in reality he simply didn't want the boy to tackle him so hard his wounds reopened. Zenshi's arm had closed up almost magically, in that way that Yato do, but the shrapnel embedded in his torso and back had done its damage.
After a few initial return greetings, Zenshi retreated to the same guest room he'd inhabited prior to his various escapades. The futon was arranged just as he'd left it, patterned maroon quilt folded flatly and neatly.
His ears picked up the footsteps of someone padding down the hall. Tsukuyo peered into his room just as he knelt at the futon. Closing the sliding panel behind her, she half-walked half-scurried to his side, attempting to seem casual but actually just as ready to crash as he was.
Zenshi and Tsukuyo exchanged no words. Neither made the effort to even throw back the coverlets — they simply found themselves with the floor by their faces, noses almost touching, relenting to fatigue and exhaustion and sleep.
Some time later, Hinowa would wheel in gently, soundlessly rearranging the blanket so that it draped across the two bodies, curled inwards toward each other, fingers interlaced. And then she closed the blinds, shutting away the sun that, for Yoshiwara, meant nighttime was well underway.
They would stir from their dreams only when the moon returned, basking them in its soft, lunar glow, chronicling the awakening of an unlikely pair.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
"I told ya, I ain't gonna go—"
When it comes to pretty little lunches, Zenshi is a charismatic charlatan, a master pretender and the greatest actor since Mei's older sister. Tsukuyo adamantly refuses to go out on what he has subtly worded as "not a date" despite the fact that this will be his only free noontime interval for quite some time.
"The Hyakka are goin' to bust a drug deal," she says. But it's not true, of course.
"Yoshiwara needs lookin' after. There's been Amanto crawlin' about durin' the daylight hours," is another one she attempts before Hinowa decidedly pushes her out the door.
"The man came all the way from downtown Edo to go to lunch with you," snaps the ebony-haired woman. She harrumphs and rolls her chair out after them. "You can't turn him down now."
Among Hinowa's clipped witticisms and various teases, she has included taunts about Tsukuyo's naivety and a brazen tendency to throw in sensitive topics — namely, one Sakata Gintoki — into the fray just to coax a little something out of the blonde courtesan. Tsukuyo, who has nearly mastered the art of taming her blush, often can't help but turn slightly pink. Whether it's out of annoyance or embarrassment, no one can tell, but the teases chafe at her.
"Gintoki wouldn't have gone through all that trouble," Hinowa quips. "You should grab onto a man that makes time for you. Isn't that right, ladies?"
A few Hyakka who gathered around Hinowa's parlor begin to chatter, giggle, and nod.
"Gintoki is a—" Tsukuyo struggles.
"A man with far more free time on his hands than I do," Zenshi cuts in dryly. "I also have a reservation."
"He's guilt tripping you," whispers Seita.
"Politicians don't guilt trip," Zenshi replies, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. "We simply state the obvious."
"Fine," Tsukuyo finally relents. She walks stiffly beside Zenshi to the Yoshiwara elevators, painfully aware of many sets of eyes on their backs. The woman pointedly ignores each time Zenshi's hand brushes against hers until a neighbor snorts and someone guffaws because she is reddening with each step and looking more and more ridiculous.
Finally, she takes it, lacing her fingers with Zenshi and letting the admiring coos — from the Hyakka and Hinowa, a ways down the street — pass over her head.
"That was a new record," he murmurs, amused. "Only took you a minute and five seconds this time."
"What's that s'pposed to mean?" she snaps. He shrugs and slows his pace. Tsukuyo glares. "Did ya really have a reservation?"
He shakes his head, not sheepish at all. Tsukuyo would throw a kunai, but her one hand is occupied and her mind goes to mush because he's laughing at her. Almost inaudibly, he lets out a small chuckle that fits perfectly to the sly, lupine grin on his face.
"I'll give ya three seconds to stop laughin'," she warns, but her lip twitches upward.
Zenshi presses an elevator button, shiny and polished. They step inside.
.: EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO :.
Sometimes emotions come like floods, but they are floods of heavy, viscous fluids that ooze slowly and menacingly into the body. The scent of blood can do that — it permeates with the essence of poison gas, sifting through the nerves until one is roiled into nausea and pain. The cold in his body fills at high tide, the pain as powerful as the moon pushing and pulling the sea. It's as if there is still a knife in his face; the moments replay constantly in his head.
The hands that grasp him are warm.
He remembers clearly each ounce of blood that unfroze in those hands.
And, to his surprise, his sight fully unravels with a smile, the citadel of all things him and all things not. The room is still dark, but he glows pale, sweat glistening at his forehead. Death does not scare the predator; Death does not scare Zenshi.
At least, not at this age.
But he certainly knows its name, and finds that should the soul reaper come to claim the warm hands that envelope him, he will consider fighting tooth and nail to get them back.
.: OCTOBER, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO :.
His crew had a tendency to simply stare out the window upon congregation in the third meeting room. The bulwarks of the ship were typically plain, darkly painted, and sullen, but the third meeting room was carpeted and embellished, the walls adorned with paintings and the fourth wall an observation deck behind the bridge.
Mei discerned direction by watching asteroids float by, but Tabs often argued that they could well be suspended in the middle of nowhere, watching things orbit past them. Jinlin had a habit of counting stars, Jenhao typically organized his next day's work, and Delong, a far cry from a socialite, sat broodingly near the head of the table.
When Zenshi did not mind a few moments of silence, he, too, looked out the window. There were a few moments in time where sorting through Prince Hata of the North Star's intergalactic animal cruelty law proposals were not as important as a few seconds of stillness.
It was in those rare moments that up, down, left, and right didn't matter.
Only the passage of time.
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
She fingers the light blue umbrella with an expression that Zenshi can't quite interpret. Her thumb turns the fabric in her hands, running along the embroidery of Zenshi's name, along the end, alongside a thousand and one patterns Madame has deftly woven over time. Eighteen years, is it? Eighteen years is a long time.
"Can't imagine ya holdin' this," Tsukuyo says, holding up the petite parasol. "When ya came only t'about here?" She gestures to her waist.
"Shorter," Madame notes. "He was a short one before he turned ten."
Tsukuyo smiles. Zenshi isn't sure if he's comfortable or exasperated; he decides it's an inexplicable mixture of both, and relents because his human partner is far happier than she lets on.
"Is this what ya wanted to show me?" she murmurs, leaning into him.
"Something along those lines."
Madame is cordial and emanates warmth. Though she hasn't had quite enough time to reacquaint herself with her son, she is absolutely delighted by his travel companion, who has a coquettish way of nudging him with her elbow from time to time. There are few instances and fewer people that can make Zenshi smile, but for this golden-haired Earthling, it comes as easily as breathing. Madame exchanges glances with her husband.
"Lanhua, isn't it nostalgic?" Linter says beneath his breath.
"Very," she agrees. There is joy bubbling inside of her, ready to burst. The festivities within their family aren't boisterous, but they are felt to the core with a loving cupidity. It's a selfish thing, but it's the type of contentment that all families hold onto with their lives. "Do you ever travel near Earth?"
"Occasionally," Linter says. "Perhaps we'll take a trip there, soon."
Madame Lanhua smiles as Tsukuyo points out a patch of embroidery fashioned in a colorful pattern akin to stained glass. A second honeymoon doesn't seem like a bad idea. In fact, it may as well be their first all over again. A visit to Earth and maybe, just maybe, a peek through the window on yet another new life their son has entered.
She doesn't glance up, only watching her son's hand pass gently over Tsukuyo's.
"Perhaps," she says.
Perhaps.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
When no one is looking — for it's just the two of them in the elevator — Zenshi closes the gap between their faces and kisses her softly.
.: DECEMBER, THREE MONTHS LATER :.
Snow falls gently over Edo, mapping the city in whites and blues and Christmas spirit hues. The residents of Kabukichou and the surrounding areas have a grand ole time prepping for holiday dinners and New Year's parties. Zenshi, who has hardly any experience with the Earthling holiday whatsoever, waits patiently as Seita haphazardly describes how a jovial, rotund man from the north travels over in a floating reindeer-drawn sleigh and delivers presents to children everywhere. The point of the holiday flies — just like Santa does over houses on Christmas Eve — right over Zenshi's head, but he enjoys the festivities.
Hinowa, of course, deviously places a mistletoe right where she knows her favorite couples will be caught. Tsukuyo, though banned from alcohol for most of the night, is red in the face for a good time because of that mistletoe.
Zenshi, of course, doesn't mind.
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
"It doesn't bother you, bud?" Abuto props his umbrella against a chair, studying the scuffed toe of his boot with feigned interest. "You didn't seem to react much when our darling Mei said it."
"No, it doesn't bother me anymore," Zenshi admits. Sure enough, the very second a "Mr. Politician" taunt slipped from Mei's lips, Zenshi's typical abhorrence of the tease slipped over him like sand through his fingers. To his surprise, he harbors no grudges against the relation to his father. "I don't think it ever did."
"You just tricked yourself into thinking so, didn't ya?" Abuto claps a hand on Zenshi's back, hard. This man, who appears regrettably older than he is, never ceases to amaze Zenshi with that lopsided smirk. His second father figure can portray so much with just his eyes and a grin. Abuto shakes his head. "Politicians tend to do that, you know?"
"Do they, now? Perhaps I'll start anew, then."
"An honest man in your father's realm is uncommon. Men like your father are few and far in between," Abuto says. "There are blurred lines and clear ones, but it's up to you to decide which ones are which."
Somewhere between his first word and the wan smile he passes, Abuto means to say that Zenshi will never be rid of the things he despises, but at the same time he can dispense his misconceptions for truths. The Yato are creatures that dwell in rain and mist. There are lies that hide in the truth, and truths that hide in the lies — that is their obscure nature. They can never cease being Yato, but they are never just one thing.
"Still, I am not my father," Zenshi replies. "Because sometimes there are men so great they are beyond comprehension."
"So you're looking up to your old man, bud? What a turnaround." Abuto's grin is mocking but sincere.
"Not quite," Zenshi chuckles. It's rare to see the former lieutenant smile, but the expression comes rather easily to his features, so Abuto immediately accepts it. "But I'll tag along for the ride."
Tabs's voice comes over the ship intercom, and Abuto tears his gaze away from their reflections in the glass.
"It's time for you to get off our ship," the vice-captain announces. He offers a hand; Zenshi shakes it, firmly. "It was a good seven years, bud."
Zenshi departs, but not without pausing at the lip of the tunnel erected between space shuttles.
"Abuto," he calls over his shoulder.
The Harusame's second-in-command waits.
"Thank you."
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
Tsukuyo often wonders if it ever gets lonely and gloomy beneath eternal shade, but finds that rather than seclusion it brings her solace.
But then again, it might be because she stands under the umbrella with someone else, someone whose tall, lean frame shields her from harm — even though she doesn't need it — and whose hand fits into hers like a key to a lock. She's never really noticed until now, but the smooth tones of his laughter, his voice, resonate softly in his chest when she presses her cheek to his shirt.
But that's only in the elevator, of course, because no one shall ever see them so intimate besides themselves.
.: DECEMBER, THREE MONTHS LATER :.
He stands there, donned in Yato robes but appearing out of place because they are the wrong colors in the right place, surveying the land that is theirs. Linter laughs every time they meet, but it's a lighthearted one, a good-natured gesture because he appreciates the assimilation of cultures. After all, what sane Yato would wear their cultural apparel in soft, sky blues and pastel yellows?
Nonetheless, Jenhao blends in with the crowd better, just as he melds seamlessly into the sky he stands against.
"The city is ours," comes the cry. And it's true. With the capital liberated, it's not just the greatest city — it's the entire planet. Sciuttla is theirs, despite the long, hard road ahead of them. Recovery will reign as the greatest challenge; remnants of the military dictatorship will decry the victorious rebels' efforts.
But the sensation of liberation is enough to erode the lingering malice.
More so than victory, freedom is their pride.
.: NOVEMBER, TWO MONTHS LATER :.
"Asteroid belt," whispers Tabs. The lights on the ship are dimmed, and they float alongside the Kiheitai in an espoused voyage.
"That's a cluster of stars," replies Mei, her voice just as low. There is no day or night, but the crew follows a 26-hour shift. They are supposed to be off-duty, sleeping, resting, watching the news in one of the lounges, but instead they sit. Shoulder to shoulder, the two stare out the window as if somehow what they envision will appear before them.
"It's definitely an asteroid belt," Tabs protests, his voice hardly audible.
Mei shakes her head.
Their quietude is broken by a few light footsteps and a familiar voice. It always bothers Mei, the smoothness of that man's voice.
"What are you two doing here?" asks Kamui, kneeling next to Tabs.
"Stargazing," Mei answers lightly. Kamui's voice is like silk, shimmering and almost melodic if the listener weren't aware of his bloodthirsty tendencies. Optimists may claim that it is his true voice — Mei harbors a strange hope that it isn't, simply because that would mean admitting that some form of twisted compassion exists in her captain, her admiral.
"There's no stars," Kamui snorts incredulously. "That's an asteroid belt. You know, the one that goes between Fastan and Vongolia?"
"Sir, it's between Vongolia and Millefiu," Tabs comments demurely.
Kamui shrugs. He looks like the eighteen-year-old he physically is, just for the moment, casual and nonthreatening. But the moment dissipates, and he's back to his fake grin and guarded, languid movements.
"You guys aren't on night shift, are you?"
"No, sir," the two answer in unison. If they are expecting a conversation, Kamui doesn't give it, because he simply acknowledges them and walks away.
After a moment or two, Tabs speaks, again in a whisper.
"Do you think he's lonely?"
Mei whirls around to stare at Tabs as if her friend has sprouted carrots from his ears. He might as well have, with that question. But certainly, there is no fallacy in his logic, seeing as a portion of her wants to know as well. The question is real.
"I guess we'll never know."
"It must be terrible to be so lonely." Tabs, whose propensity to shrink into his younger years when he speaks quietly, stares despondently out the window with his shoulders hunched.
"I guess so," Mei agrees reluctantly. Friends, she believes, are not signs of cowardice.
They are proof that, to someone else, you are alive.
.: OCTOBER, ONE MONTH LATER :.
He wonders when he fell for her.
And decides that he's better off never knowing, because what would she think?
Unbeknownst to Zenshi, Tsukuyo also ponders a similar question. Perhaps it was somewhere between question one and question twenty. Most likely, it was when she refused to answer half of them because she found them fallow and intrusive. But that was just ironic because he was a smart man who placed his questions carefully, almost strategically as he got to know her. She'd never outright told him she was infatuated with another person. In fact, she was fully convinced that only Hinowa had caught wind of her crush.
She'd never expected another one to creep her way.
Between her twenty questions and his twenty questions, a lustrous little star had fallen into the palm of her hands, hidden among the rocks and the dull pebbles.
Tsukuyo, being the stubborn, strong-willed figurehead of Yoshiwara that she is, doesn't hold onto the star. In fact, the first chance she has, she throws it right out of her figurative window.
"What're ya doin'?" she demands crassly when he comes a little too close. Zenshi peers at her curiously, expressionless just as he always has been — though she notices him smiling more often, and she admits to liking that smile — and as taciturn as he started.
Zenshi shrugs, as if to say that he hasn't been doing a thing.
"Ya think I didn't see?" Tsukuyo glances around quickly, but Zenshi's parents had disappeared into the bakery to close shop. She shoots him a glare for leaning in close to her. "What ya did just now?"
"Well, what do you want me to do then?"
"Stop answerin' with questions," she snaps. His leery expression makes her giggle internally, but quickly the blonde courtesan reminds herself that she is the Courtesan of Death, and the Courtesan of Death does not giggle. Yet another part of her has grown lenient, and is rather content with observing his quiet ways. The Sciuttlan incident had brought forth the most vigorous Zenshi she'd ever witnessed, which may not have been a bad thing, but it is this aloof, reserved, and slightly quirky Yato that she enjoys conversing with the most. "Ya already know what I want ya to do."
"Lie in a gutter half dead? I'd rather not." He leans his chin into a fist, looking slightly cheerful but mostly just sarcastic.
"So that I can meet ya all over again?" This time, Tsukuyo decides to take the lead. The tables are turned; she'll play the witty trick on him. And what will he say to that, then?
But Zenshi, never to be underestimated, balances gravity with humor, seriousness with joviality. And where Tsukuyo feels like she's hit a home run, he can leap the fence and catch it past the outfield. They are close together, almost daringly so, despite the fact that she just recently warded him off.
"If none of this ever happened, then I'd spend my whole life trying to die in a gutter so that I'd meet you."
Tsukuyo jerks backwards, flushing.
"What kinda death wish is that?!" she demands.
He laughs, a short chuckle because he also thinks that his own words are past cheesy and into fondue.
"One where I can meet the Courtesan of Death."
"Yer really creepin' me out with these, Zen."
Almost instantaneously, his eyes light up. His face is still a mask of blankness, but his eyes, deep blue like the sea, tell a different story. He's about to say something, but Madame reenters, asking if Tsukuyo prefers something called ice tuna pineapple over space peanut. Tsukuyo, with no clue whatsoever what the mousy woman has just said, just nods. Invigorated by the blonde's approval, Madame marches back to the kitchen to prepare whatever it was she had in mind.
"You seem like the type to like clichéd moments," Zen states bluntly.
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"A little bit of both."
They spend the next few moments in terse silence, the distance frozen between them. The most she lets him get away with for the night is a peck on the cheek.
But that, too, is just fine with Zenshi.
For now.
.: SEPTEMBER, PRESENT :.
"Question one." They started all over, as if some inviolable law had called for another set of inquiries simply to pass the time. The two settled on the rooftop, one of the highest in the underground city, placed as soft silhouettes against the glaring nightlife lights. Yoshiwara came alive once the sun set and the moon yawned open, suspended in the maw of the sky. The rise of the night eye was morning in Yoshiwara, as shops opened and the elevators became occupied by more and more thrill-seekers.
Zenshi glanced at Tsukuyo, who had posed the initiation. The leader of the Hyakka watched Yoshiwara like a hawk, an attentive eye scanning the labyrinth of a city with practiced ease. There was no longevity in the bursting orange lanterns and luminary attractions. Even the ladies of Yoshiwara glowed with a certain appeal that gave the city its heart.
"Who'll look after Yoshiwara when we aren't?"
Zenshi decided that the question's inclusiveness was a comfortable one, but waited for her to elaborate further. When she didn't, he assumed.
"Someone strong. Like you."
"But it has t'be someone smart, too. Like you." She folded her arms, refusing to look at him.
"That someone will be both, then." And though they were not aware at the time, such a person would arise from the den of Yoshiwara.
Zenshi followed Tsukuyo's gaze for a few moments before returning with his own question.
"Question one," he stated, waiting for her to drag her attention from the city to his face, just for a moment. "How much would it take for you to go out into space again?"
Tsukuyo glared, but not at him. Her attention divided, she juggled retaliating and keeping guard over her city both at once.
"Never again," she announced decidedly.
"Just once. For my sake."
"When ya word it like that, it sounds like yer tryin' to coerce me into some plan of yers." Tsukuyo's tone was mocking, but the consideration behind his request was pending.
"I have a promise to keep."
"To?"
"Someone."
"What someone?"
"Why don't you guess?"
She tossed him a real glower this time, but softened when he strode up next to her and touched her elbow.
"It's a quiet night, don't ya think?" During the day, as the sun streamed in, dust particles could be seen floating languidly in their idle, random paths, completely oblivious to Edo's forces. Here, at night, the only illumination against the stark shadows was the flashing of advertisements in the red-light district, in Yoshiwara's heart. It was a typical night — and anything but quiet — but Tsukuyo felt otherwise.
"Very," agreed Zenshi, leaning close to her. The silence was not heavy; only contemplative. A soft breeze carried the aromas of human bustle and the smoke of small bonfires. If they held perfectly still, listening beyond the sound of their own breaths, the occasional creak of a lantern's hinges could be heard. And, beyond the bodies and the footsteps and the crowds, someone's wind chime, out of place in the dark night.
The questions did not continue for the night, seeing as the two preferred to engage in their little, private exchanges only from time to time. Yet simultaneously, the distance between the real question one and this one was vastly different, transformed from a canyon's width to a mere hair.
They shared a convivial adoration of Yoshiwara, celebrated in silence. Tsukuyo gently touched his left wrist, where a slightly protruding knob signified the place of an old break. Instinctively, her fingers closed around that spot, brushing against a calloused thumb and a warm palm. A wordless convergence of thoughts occurred, sitting silently on the edge of a rooftop, feeling the glittering autumn leaves from below counterbalance the fervent white eye from above.
And, the distance between their hands and breathes ebbing like a retreating tide, they watched the City of the Night.
A warrior and a guardian, immersed in their own stillness with esoteric little secrets and experiences between them. Tsukuyo twirled a kunai in her fingers, letting the metal glint in the light for just a split second, nothing but another flash in Yoshiwara's nightly chaos. Zenshi's umbrella hilt, the golden insignia — his own family crest, the silhouette of a wolf — glinted in the pale light that descended like soft, shimmering curtains from the opened roof.
The moments on that rooftop were hard to describe, and from then on they were increasingly rare, but the sensations lingered.
The lights of Yoshiwara, effervescent and ephemeral, lit upon them with a fleeting transience caught only in the warmth of their intertwined fingers.
It was eerily quiet for the Night Kingdom bathed in light, and continued to be so in an elusive peace, lanterns gleaming at obsidian sky like the eyes of wolves, howling their devotion to the moon.
.: FIN :.
Thank you all so much for supporting me! I'm so glad this story worked its way to the end. My first completed story with somewhat of an actual plot! What a time to be alive.
*strikes a pose*
For any chapter, any detail, questions, reviews, and opinions are welcome!
Art: My deviantART has had a recent influx of both Zenshi art and commissions of him! Check it out - link is on my profile.
Notes: Another reason this took me ages is because the site kept glitching on the copy-and-paste box-thing for uploading. This new editor is great! Lovin' it. What is this big text though. And strike through text too?!
Now go and get yourself a blue and yella' papaya.
I started this story January 8th - I'm finishing it on April 26th.
It's been a good three plus months.
THANK YOU ALL FOR READING.
YOU ALL ROCK.
ASTEROID BELTS FOREVER.
-Cavallo Alato-