An old, forgotten memory.

His parents died from cholera. The village head sold him to the daimyo. The daimyo sold him to the slavers.

In the space of a few weeks, a six year old boy too old for his skin lost everything. His name was not Kenshin. He had never held a sword in his life. In his hands was the only thing he owned: a small, three-colour spinning top. The only thing he had from his old life. That little spinning top went with him when was passed from place to place, finally ending up in this slave cohort.

He barely remembered any of this — all a faint blur of dirt and sick and grasping hands bruising his shoulders. None of this had any consequence right now. It was ancient history. He wouldn't have thought of this at all if it weren't for…

Anyway. The green, red and blue spinning top was his last possession. No matter how bad things got, no matter how dull things seemed, he could always retreat to his colourful spinning top, he could play with a toy like any other child. He spun it happily, mindlessly during breaks. Sakura, Akane and Kasumi chattered to him in reassuring tones, taking turns to spin it upon Shinta's invitation, unable to refuse.

The slavers were attacked by bandits. The bandits were attacked by a ronin. The ronin took Shinta in.

The day he left his old life behind, discarded his child's name for a warrior's, he slid the spinning top from his clothes. There were no flowers. After Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth had given his tribute of fine sake for his three guardians, Kenshin gratefully laid down his last possession on the newly dug graves of his carers. He left his old life behind.

Now he truly had nothing.

In the Kyoto market.

Rice flour dumplings shone in the street-food stall as bright as gems in a jewellery store — pink, white, green, pink, white, green — its stall vendor dusting them with the finest powder of sugar before something abruptly cut off the afternoon light. A large shadow blanketed the food, loomed over the stall. The vendor gasped.

"One dango."

An absolutely enormous man squinted down at the rows of sweet treats, reading the pricing lists with an inquisitive hand to his chin. He wasn't quite aware of the cold sweat that had broken out on the stall vendor's brow.

"Ah…right. Which one would you like, Sir," she said in a heightened customer service voice.

The man hummed. "What dango do you want?" he said gruffly, and the vendor blinked, confused.

Suddenly, the tiniest little boy peered out from behind the curtain of cloak the man was wearing, and, like a little dog behind a big one, pointing to which other dog had barked at him, the kid muttered into his leg.

"I can't hear you." The big man pulled the cloak up and away, holding it out of the boy's reach. Instantly, the entire stall went dark like night. "Articulate yourself."

The boy pursed his lips, gesturing down. The large man caved, bent, and let the boy whisper into his ear. But the boy was not particularly good at whispering, as he blurted, "You didn't say please."

The man backed up. A number of expressions flitted across his face as if he'd been dealt a backhand. Finally he rose, shadowed the stall again.

"One dango. Please."

Spurred on, the boy came forward. He bowed shyly, and pointed to one of the hamani dango. The vendor blinked. Her heart melted.

"Ohh, of course you may, dear one." As she took the perkiest looking dango and handed it to the child, the man rummaged in the sack on his belt, producing coins. "Thank you, Sir, and thank you, Sir."

She smiled up at the man approvingly. It was so nice to see fathers spending time with their children, especially in this day and age.

But the man scowled. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

The vendor stiffened a fraction. She could not really tell who he was talking to, and it was a relief when the little son came up with a, "Thank you, Ma'am."

"That's more like it."

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth ambled down the street-food aisle of town, keeping a careful watch on the brown-red head bobbing in and out of his cloak. Like a clownfish in a sea anemone, taking up permanent residence, he bobbed and weaved. After another minute of narrowly stumbling, Hiko stopped. Beneath his cloak, a second pair of legs also stopped. Hiko sighed.

"Can you stop trying to walk right where I am trying to walk? Have some decorum, Former Deshi's Son!"

Kenji dipped out. He managed to look a little sheepish as he shrugged his shoulders.

Hiko sighed again. "You don't know what 'decorum' means, do you?"

With enthusiasm, Kenji shook his head. "No."

"It means to act with some sense of proprietary."

Kenji waved his dango from side to side. He held it rather like he would a sword.

"You don't know what 'proprietary' means either, do you?"

"Nuh-uh."

Hiko regarded him. "When I was your age, I could recite one hundred of Edo's most famed haikus from memory. In my tenth summer I could name any good haiku to its poet."

Hiko looked up, as if to share a disdainful look with someone. But the only disdainful looks around were directed at him. He was holding up the narrow road behind him, where people were parting abruptly to give way. He picked up the pace. Kenji, sticking close but not close enough to trip, had to go from a waddle to a jog to keep up.

Hiko looked down at him. "Why are you not eating your dango?"

Without a shred of subtlety, Kenji shrugged his shoulders with manic energy. Even he felt the need to explain himself when Hiko kept staring. How the tables turned, he supposed.

"Don't feel like eatin it now."

"Don't feel like?" Hiko echoed. "Then why did I go traipsing to the market on the other side of town if you don't feel like eating your rice flour on a stick?"

Kenji pursed his lips. He seemed to be genuinely shy this time, shuffling his feet nervously. The boy was hiding something.

Hiko stopped. "What, pray tell, is wrong?"

"Nothin'."

"Something is wrong, otherwise you wouldn't have been so reserved. What is it?"

"It's nothin'."

"Former Deshi's Son?"

Kenji gave him a standoffish look, and Tathagata Buddha, it was the same look Kenshin gave him when Hiko, like a monster, wouldn't let him gorge down on more of the strange mushrooms he'd so proudly foraged from the forest floor.

…Mushrooms. Poisoned.

It clicked for Hiko. He bobbed down, coating half his cloak in a generous smear of dust. Hiko yanked the dango from the former deshi's son. The glossy pink dumpling shone in the light. Hiko took a small bite. Kenji watched, intrigued. Not just intrigued: positively hanging in suspense, anticipating death as if witnessing the world's most stupid assassination.

"There," Hiko said, swallowing pink dango with the reticence of a suicide pill. "Not poisoned."

"—But what about the other one?"

Hiko took another bite out of the white dango. Then the green dango, for good measure.

"There," he said, a little exasperated. "Happy now? Eat your food."

But Kenji was not happy. Because Hiko had just eaten half his food. Kenji took it back un-energetically.

He wanted to eat dango, but needed someone to test his dango for poison — why on earth did his father fill his head with that idiocy? — but also didn't want his dango eaten by someone else. All of a sudden, tears brimmed at the floodgates, and Kenji's little ki actually flared, almost visible. Crying was imminent.

Hiko sighed, his eyes rolling back into his head.

"One dango," Hiko said, to the warmly smiling woman at the dango stall. "Please."

Kenji popped out from under his cloak, a shy smile on his face.

Elsewhere in the market.

Shinomori Aoshi held the palm-sized map in hand and squinted down at it critically. Besides from the detailed written instructions, Misao had helpfully labelled her artistic rendition of Kyoto with captions such as 'abandoned docks,' 'hole in roof,' 'getaway-alley,' 'place I got shot.' Next to the latter was what Aoshi could make out to be an upside-down smile. There had been guards that night she made her trip to the dock, more than one. And they had weapons: firearms clearly, but ones that could be quickly reloaded, not the slow muskets the lesser ronin touted at each other. Misao had been sure to outline that point after crawling back to the Aoiya with the wounded indignance of it. Only three — maybe just four — but they all fired and reloaded within thirty seconds — I thought that impossible! But I swear it on the Founder, they fired at me within the minute! Aoshi-sama, have you got something in your eye?

"Shinomori, do you know where I am going?"

Aoshi turned his head. He was met with a set of shadowed, impatient eyes under a straw hat, at perfect eye-level with his own. This woman was inordinately tall. And like Misao, she was forward, too. Good. Aoshi hated people who wasted words. Keenly aware he was one who volunteered for this, but despite the fact, Aoshi would love nothing more than not to speak a word the entire night.

"We."

"Pardon?" she uttered.

"Where we are going." A dark pause sat between them. "We have established running alone is impertinent," Aoshi forced himself to clarify. "You need a second."

"What I need is for you to give me the location. You gave your word, and your word is the honour of your house." Seijuro palmed her sword through her cloak. Hm. Was that an absent-minded tick, or a more sinister message? Aoshi couldn't always tell. His mind always leapt to the worst conclusions, made only pessimistic jumps — the first man who tried to shake his hand at the inn at opening hour he'd wrestled to the floor, preempting attack. His mistake. Acting as the inn's front-of-house man was not unlike the moment prior an ambush, except the pin never dropped and he was suspended for hours in the seconds before he was supposed to pull his blade. He peered at the map and instructions again, careful to keep them from sight. Seijuro glowered at this.

"You…" Aoshi started, and fizzled.

She never did give her surname. Was that for privacy, security, or something else? Hailed from a clan of fame? A wanted woman? Aoshi might have made his measly attempts at courting Western fashions, everyone did these days, but he was not in the frame of mind — nor quite the frame of soul — to possibly call this woman by her personal name.

"You realise there are hours yet until nightfall." Aoshi scrunched the map in his palm, and watched her face harden. "I shall give you the location."

"However?"

"Only when the time is ripe."

Seijuro cocked her head to one side, folding her arms. Aoshi noted she did not go for her swords again. She had two of them: a daisho set, no doubt. Most hooligans and law-breakers harboured only a single blade — they were easier to conceal and carry. Aoshi himself hid his twin kodachi as a single blade. The onna-bugeisha, however, either did not care, or desperation had won out reason. Aoshi controlled himself from letting out a huff. Obviously, desperation was the root here, otherwise Onna-bugeisha Seijuro would not walk with a ninja. A very old-fashioned prejudice to hold, Aoshi mused, especially after the war — there were so many other things to find prejudice about with the country opened — but certainly not untold of. She did not trust him.

"You do not trust me," Seijuro put out into the open.

Aoshi's brow furrowed slightly. "It is not about trust," he said. "It is about timing."

It was about the fact that the second the onna-bugeisha acquired the map and information, Aoshi need only blink once and he would not so much as see her shadow the rest of the night.

She was, admittedly, that fast.

The only person he'd ever faced who could match that speed was…

Seijuro turned starkly away, her cloak flapping strongly behind her. She folded her arms again. A few years ago, Aoshi would easily have taken the action as a slight. How presumptuous it was, for him to believe all the world was against him, and all people in it hiding blades under sleeves. The world simply did not work that way. He was not at all tortured or special. The world did not care about him, just like Seijuro was not deliberately choosing every interaction as an insult.

All this analysis, and he only now grasped what this looked like from her eye. Aoshi, a ninja, withholding vital information that would lead her to her disappeared child. A samurai and a master, desperate enough to hold her tongue in front of a ninja to remain in his favour. For the privilege of the information in the literal palm of his hand.

Aoshi shut his eyes and let out that heavy sigh. Sometimes he thought no amount of meditation and mindfulness techniques could change him. There was something wrong about him. Something ugly. Unbalanced. No matter how much time he spent in the zen garden, no matter how he played and replayed ancient history in his mind, no matter how many patterned yukatas he owned or inn guests he greeted, he would always be the man who saw the worst in his own family, his own Aoiya; and he would always be the traitor who beat his teacher to the brink of death, the deadbeat who abandoned his martial sister to grow up alone, the disgrace who sullied his dead companions' memory, the dishonourable cad who tried to kill an honourable man. No amount of analysis could ever help him find what inside of him was wrong.

Maybe it was good that he turned his back on his commander's last wishes to look after his only child. Maybe it was a blessing that Misao grew up without him. All he had to do now was imagine what his chosen Okashira would do.

The current Okashira, as a fact, made better decisions for the Aoiya than he ever did.

Aoshi stretched out his hand, relinquishing the map to Seijuro.

Seijuro's face scrunched, taken aback. Her eyes fell to the map, but she did not move to take it.

"Speak. Tell of the location. Describe the way so I may know before nightfall." She hesitated. "I need time to memorise…commit it to memory."

Aoshi held the map closer, his head angled away. When still she did not take it, he glanced up, losing patience.

This was not like the handshake. Seijuro stared at the piece of paper in his hand as if it pained her.

"What is it?" Aoshi said. "Take it."

Seijuro's brows turned down, but she blanked her face quickly. She hastily took the paper. Aoshi watched as she unfurled the map and her eyes glided un-comprehensively across the sheet. Quite like the way Okina did at the inn stocktake at the previous audit. Or the current Okashira across the price listings at an upscale restaurant she dragged Aoshi against his will to.

"What is it?" Aoshi said again, a little riled. "Is there something wrong with the reconnaissance? Do you know someone present? Do we need to reconsider?"

Seijuro's head jerked up, a little jolted. Her calm, confident air had disappeared altogether; in its place was a veneer of…chagrin? Frustration? Shame? What was it?

To his stout surprise, which did not show on his face, Seijuro handed the map back to him.

Great. Aoshi had offended her.

Seijuro turned again. Facing the busy street with her keen eyes flickering away at the families with children and noblewomen in palanquins she said, "Read it out to me."

Aoshi stood still. Surely, one could only interpret that as an insult?

"Do you wish to draw your sword?"

Seijuro's mouth twisted. "Speak plainly."

"Listen…Seijuro. I may not abide by your samurai code, but you are right: I have given you my word. You protected my Okashira. A debt to you I owe. A debt upon my life, for the life you saved — whim or no." Aoshi did not bow his head. He stared into her widening eyes. "If you wish to test me, I would rather get it out of the way now than let it hinder the mission. Do you wish to draw your sword upon me?"

Seijuro turned fully from her perch watching the street. Some of the light was leaving now, streaking long shadows across the cobblestones, dark pockets under eaves. After a while, Seijuro answered.

"…I cannot read."

"…What?"

"I cannot read," Seijuro enunciated. She dragged the straw hat down an inch.

Aoshi held her frigid stare.

"…The map shows a number of buildings positioned close to one another down at the shipping docks, though some way from the boats themselves. There are two warehouses that store dry goods of all kinds for departure or arrival—"

As Aoshi recited Misao's instructions on the placement of the main doors, exits, and patrol routes, he silently readjusted his impressions. Twenty years ago, maybe, even noblewomen were not always afforded the chance to hone penmanship skills — the average peasant woman certainly was illiterate. But now with the Meiji Government's new focus on education, its programs and initiatives, most had a basic comprehension in the cities at least — skills gleaned in postwar adulthood if not honed from childhood. All kunoichi under the Oniwabanshuu were famously literate, averting any kind of barrier that could impede upon a ninja's duties. Historically, information control, espionage and information dissemination was their trade: the fighting and torturing came after.

Seijuro had the pride of a onna-bugeisha and confidence of a noblewoman, but on other fronts appeared brash and crude as a peasant. Aoshi put it to the back of his mind. His mission was not to judge her. His mission was to fulfil his debt to her. In an instant, his curiosity waned, and he went back to the matter at hand.

"Shall I describe the route again?"

"Yes," Seijuro asserted. "And describe the patrols to me once more. How many can we expect as guards?"

"…As you request."

One had to choose their battles. This was a lesson Hiko Seijuro never managed to teach Kenshin. One had to be honest as to their own ability and their foe's. This was a lesson he himself had never truly had to learn. Perhaps it was not too late. Even a man as he had limits. He could try to debate the Former Deshi's Son why crying in front of him would achieve nothing, was weak and useless — or he could buy him another dango and shut him up. So while Kenji munched on his new dango Hiko consumed his old one.

But. Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth had to admit…this dango actually kind of tasted alright.

Hiko was onto the green one, matcha flavoured, when Kenji suddenly tugged at his cloak again and pointed at another stall. Takoyaki balls. He hadn't had that in years. And now that he'd seen it, he was frankly having cravings he hadn't had in an eon.

So he treated the former deshi's son to takoyaki. Next to it were some okonomiyaki pancakes, so they ended up patrons there as well. Hiko narrowly stopped him from digging in with his little grabby hands by splitting it up into bite-sized pieces. The kid wolfed them down. Next they passed a candied-fruits stall, who's vendor seduced the boy with a mere wave of candied apple. Hiko ended up buying him the candied apple. But the boy couldn't finish it after three bites. So he surrendered it to Hiko on his tiptoes, and Hiko had to eat it because his comment about tossing it made the boy's eyes well up with water in guilt. So he nibbled on some bizarre candied apple absolutely slathered in sugar so disgustingly sweet and shockingly red — to more odd glances from passersby. After that the brat was thirsty. It never ended.

He never felt so taxed after a day of walking to the whims of some former deshi's son. Certainly the former deshi his exalted self should be back now. He should dump the kid back where he belonged. But Hiko found he had already circled them to the steps of a teahouse — and what was he supposed to do exactly? Let the kid go thirsty? Save a few yen on a water fee?

"Table for two," Hiko said. "Please."

"Certainly, Sirs. This way."

Hiko narrowly stopped Kenji from jumping at the woman as he exclaimed, "Tae-san!" out of nowhere. The woman glanced back, mouth open.

Hiko raised his brows. "You know this woman, Former Deshi's Son?"

Kenji nodded triumphantly. "Tae-san!"

But the waitress giggled, covering her mouth with a sigh. "Oh, little one, you must know my sister. Tae from Tokyo, right?!" She laughed as if she were charmed by the confusion instead of inconvenienced. "I'm a twin, little one. Sae from Kyoto! Can you say 'Sae?' Hello!"

This was the reason children were so stunted and couldn't recite any poems. People talked down to offspring as if they were a different species entirely. Sae laughed again as Kenji withdrew, apparently realising his mistake. He ran behind Hiko, little hands bunching up his cloak. Hiko found himself apologising more than he had in what felt like years on the kid's behalf. Sae only laughed and led them to a brightly lit table.

"One sake, please," Hiko said.

"One sake, please," Kenji said.

"On second thought, I have changed my mind. One houjicha tea. Thank you."

"Kenji's changed his mind too. One houjicha tea, thank you."

Once the waitress's giggles had subsided, Kenji leaned across the table and asked in what he thought was a surreptitious tone, "What's houjicha tea?"

"It's tea that has been additionally roasted." And it contained very little caffeine so it was suitable even for a baby.

Kenji's face scrunched. "That taste nice?"

"Maybe if you practiced some patience, you'll see."

A waitress brought over the tea. Hiko had to stop Kenji from gulping down near piping hot tea every twenty seconds, reminding him, "It's not cool enough. It's still not cool enough, former deshi's son. It's been ten seconds—"

"But Kenji waited!"

"Can you not see the steam rising?"

"But Kenji waited!"

"Well Seijuro says, wait longer."

The second he heard his words outside his head, he blinked. Not only had the former baka's stupidity rubbed off on him, but apparently a mere few hours spent in the company of the former deshi's son was poisoning him too. Soon he'd be talking at the level of a pre-schooler. Hiko sighed. He mashed two fingers to his face. His throat thirsted for sake, it had been so long. But alas, he needed as much self control as the boy did.

Hiko removed his hand from his face. "What if I told you another story. Will you manage to exhibit some patience then?"

Kenji's face lit up. Like a spark of fire on dry kindling, like a lightning bug at evening, like dawn on water, he smiled, largely, and Hiko felt as if the sun was on his back. Kenji rocked on his chair until tea spilled across the tops of their cups.

"Hmm," Hiko thought. "Hm…Once, there was a boy. The boy had nothing. No family, no home, no future. But the boy had something deep within him. Something very rare and coveted. Something many failed to conceive. He had courage, and he had compassion. And the boy had a teacher. His teacher taught him skills to protect himself. But this was not enough for the boy. So he left to protect the world."

"The whole world?"

"…The country. The world. Whatever. Can I continue?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hm. The world was a different place, very unlike him: the world was cold and cruel. But he set out to protect it, and by protecting what was close to him, he changed it."

"Changed it?" Kenji kicked Hiko's knee beneath the seat. "How'd he do that?"

By killing, Hiko did not say. By not killing? He wasn't too sure to say.

"By fighting. By never giving up. He protected what was close to him. That, Kenji, is a radical act. He fought and never gave up. He kept to his oath to protect man, woman and child. And that changed the world around him."

Kenji smiled that big smile again. "So he's a hero. Like Momotaro!"

Hiko was quiet for a long time. "In this story," he said, "yes."

Kenji smiled largely, nodding his head in appreciation, as though Hiko had imparted to him some clandestine secret, some universe-proven wise words. Hiko dragged the boy's tea towards him. He blew on the top of the tea once, twice, before putting it to his closed lip.

"Drink your tea, Former Deshi's Son."

Kenji's claws-for-hands grasped the tea. But to Hiko's amusement, he took small, dainty sips, setting it down politely again without a thump.

"It's yum. Nice. Kenji like it."

"Of course you do," Hiko smirked. "That's Kenshin's favourite. Kenshin liked it too."

Kenji sipped his tea a few more times with the same, measured care. His legs swung under the table, and it was conflicting a little with his careful sipping. He caught Hiko watching him closely, with unguarded, wistful eyes, which he scaled back with a little cough and shifting eyes. What was there to stare at? He met the boy. He knew his father. That was all. After today, the boy will go back to his carers, back to his family, back many miles away in Tokyo. He was just a fledgling barely out of infancy: young enough to forget this entire, sordid day. Young enough to forget Hiko ever told him stories, blew on his tea. His tracks would completely fade, like sand on a beach, washed away once Hiko turned his back. He would turn his back — soon enough.

Kenji did not subscribe to social politeness as he did tea-drinking politeness. He stared and stared back at Hiko with those wide, gleaming eyes. "Thank you, Hiko-sama."

"Hm."

Hiko frowned. But then his face pinched and his brow pulled. "…What did you call me?"

Kenji crawled up his seat so that he could stand on his knees, reaching across the table for the teapot. Hiko took hold of it before Kenji could and raised the pot to pour him another cup.

"…Listen boy." He pointed an accusing finger between them. "You and I have no relation. Do not call me -sama."

"Aun' Misao said—"

"Don't listen to the kunoichi! Listen to me."

"Okay…" But Kenji's eyes kept darting up to Hiko, a little smirk playing his lips that crinkled his face — a stupid little thing that grew and grew. "Listen to you, Hiko-chan."

Hiko frowned. "…You. Are a little. Rotten. Rascal."

Immediately, Hiko rose form his seat, poised as if to pounce him. Kenji rose up too, shrieking, filling the teahouse in an instant; Hiko shuffled seats, scooting ominously close before Kenji scooted away, and Hiko scooted in, and Kenji jumped out of the seat and ran away, reseating himself in Hiko's seat so Hiko reached across the table, poking him squarely in the head — with more gusto than he'd meant — so much that Kenji actually leaned back dangerously on the chair legs before whacking back — Hiko's leg under the table steadying it. Hiko's second of worry melted away when Kenji leaned forward in absolute giggles.

"Sirs," came a serving girl rushing up to their table.

"One houjicha tea! Thank you!" Kenji parroted.

"Apologies for the noise," Hiko droned.

"Please no running…or scooting chairs round the teahouse," the server said. "That's all!"

But they only stayed for a few minutes because Kenji began yawning, rubbing his eyes. Before long he was sitting with his face down on the table, looking dead. Hiko scooped him in arm and stood still for another few minutes to wait for the boy to succumb to sleep. But that only gave him access to the flared, red lapels of Hiko's collar, which he used to rub his eyes and nose. He fought long and hard, trying to keep his eyes open, when they finally fluttered shut and he asked, "Wha' happened to the other character?"

"What other character?" Hiko said.

"There's two." Kenji held up two fingers, wiggling them. "The boy who changed the world. And the teacher."

Hiko lifted his brow quizzically, tipping his head as if he didn't recall. Never mind that Kenji's eyes were closed, and he couldn't see the exaggerated expression. "Oh. That one. Nothing. Nothing happened to him."

"But he was the boy's teacher. And he went away…did he ever come back?" Kenji yawned again.

"No," Hiko said.

But Kenji had already fallen asleep. Hiko ventured back out to the streets. But the markets were closing early. There had been a curfew put on the city earlier that day, an emergency order that took effect immediately, banning people from being out after dark. Hiko had overheard a few others argue and praise and denounce it in the market before glancing by at the noticeboard — the one with all the missing minors. He hadn't thought of it at all, thinking he would be alone by dark. Any other time, Hiko could not have cared less. But the timing of this curfew and the little heartbeat on his shoulder gave him a sense of unease. There was some procession going on behind them — some uniform noise and shouting in time. Hiko shifted his cloak, lifting it over Kenji. A cold was setting in, and he hadn't the mind to have bought the boy a haori; the shops were all closing.

But before he headed back to the Aoiya, Hiko managed to purchase himself a block of wood from a shutting woodworking stall. A personal project, to pass the time. As he walked at speed to pass the crowd of people congregating — a protest, probably — a sliver of white caught his eye.

"…Who are they?" a passing voice said.

"Victims of the late killings," another answered.

Hiko turned his head, glimpsing another in a white-coloured cloak. Suddenly, Hiko felt a pressure in his chest rising from the inside, threatening to push out, come barrelling to the surface. He set his jaw, frowned, and staved it off. Pointedly, he looked away and continued on his path.

Something strange had happened. Hiko's mind had seen the passing silhouette and filled in the blanks with something ludicrous: something forgotten and foreign now, something faded…but not entirely disappeared.

Just like the stupid story about the boy and the teacher, Hiko had parted from his own teacher many years ago and never looked back. It was strange, because Hiko Seijuro had not thought about his predecessor in a long time. When he thought about her…

—He knew for a fact he had not had enough to drink.

Hiko rushed back towards the Aoiya, sleeping child in arm, carefully blanketed by the cloak.

An old, forgotten memory.

Maybe that had been a lie.

It hadn't completely slipped Kenshin's mind. He just didn't like remembering. A white lie, perhaps, a thing selectively misplaced to feel a little bit better: something people tell themselves all the time. But a lie nonetheless.

He laid down his three-colour spinning top at the graves of his guardians as Hiko Seijuro spoke a eulogy. Shinta hadn't wanted to do that. He, like a selfish, vindictive child, hadn't wanted to lay down the spinning top. Jealously holding onto a piece of painted wood like an old family heirloom, clinging to it like a prized, heritage jewel. Hiko Seijuro never even met these women, and he poured every last drop of his fine sake to honour them. These women gave their lives to protect him, they knew him three days and they ran hurriedly to their slaughter, absolutely charged to put themselves between him and the killer, lunging to die — and he couldn't even give up some — some toy?

Shinta was deplorable. Despicable. What kind of swordsman's disciple was so cowardly?

He laid down the spinning top upon the womens' graves.

Now he truly had nothing.

As nightfall crept over the city, stifling the last light of the evening, the city changed; voices of men and women went from a low chatter to a heightened protest, sounds of firecrackers which usually were signals of joy sounded like a loud, vicious warning, and then there was the wailing — a keening, grieving screech of a sound like a wraith in the night. Someone was crying.

"Disperse! Disperse!" a man holding a baton was shouting — law enforcement — and pushed back a few members of the thickening crowd.

Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth and Aoshi slipped through the crowd when Hiko finally neared the centre of the commotion and glimpsed the flickering candlelight on the shrine. That's what she'd thought it was when it first caught her eye, but as she slowed and neared the candles it was clear this was no marketplace shrine. Upon a makeshift stand were slips of papers with kanji on them — they looked like talismans, but she couldn't read what was written. The thing that gave away the candlelit vigil were the toys and children's clothes placed at the bottom of the stand. Others put down books, calligraphy brushes, and even small portraits of loved ones.

Hiko slipped past the mob, coming close to the vigil's offering table. Next to her, a crying woman in a sash hid her face in a male yukata — a lost family member's, most likely — muffling her voice and she wept and wept. Her voice could be heard from far away in the market, like a shrill, piercing war horn.

The ninja, also separating from the crowd, stepped up to stand by Hiko's side.

"…Who are they?" Hiko asked.

"Victims of the late killings."

Aoshi never said a word more than was necessary. It made him appear as if he was always hiding something, always calculating. But now Hiko thought he simply was a man who didn't have much to say.

"Victims of the Yakuza?"

"Yes."

Hiko stepped up to the talismans. She picked one up, turning it in her hand. The kanji was nothing but black strokes and lines to her. When she was plucked from the streets by her master, he'd put a sword in her hand and gave her the arm to wield it. He made her the vessel of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, his heiress who fought and turned tides at will; but he never deemed it important to teach her how to read. Why bother, when war was the currency of the times? The sword was the only thing she needed. It was only practical. It had never particularly been a problem, really; there weren't many occasions to test her lacking out on the battlefield. Then she had Miki. Miki had had an education. He was twelve years old and Hiko relied on him for any sort of transaction involving words on a page. Now he was gone, Hiko floundered in the dark, more helpless than she ever remembered. Looking at the kanji on the talismans, Hiko might as well be blind.

Hiko shut her eyes. Swallowing her pride, she asked the ninja, "What does it say?"

"It is the names of the deceased," he said through a grim tone. It surprised Hiko when he went on to say, dully, "Suzuki Azumi. Takahashi Daisuke. Isaku Rin. Kozoue. Taku. Iida. It is a vigil for the deceased. Many of those who are missing have been presumed dead." Aoshi's eyes flickered to a small drawing of a young girl, reading the name beside it. "…This was last night's victim. Isaku Doa."

Hiko watched Aoshi's stony face, staring at the board as if he were committing to memory all the drawings of the missing. Every face and every name. It wasn't possible. There were simply too many.

Someone came by and lit a new candle, illuminating a large note strapped to the board. Hiko gestured to it. "What's this?"

Aoshi stiffened uncomfortably. He was quiet for a long, drawn-out moment. "It's libel," he said flatly, without looking at her. Hiko noted the way his eyes had hardened, growing discontent beneath the surface. "Falsehoods."

It seemed he had more to say, but was clearly accustomed never to voice his true thoughts. Still, he did not try harder to conceal the fact he felt about as calm as Okina did back in the Aoiya: where Okina was matter-of-fact and silently incensed, Aoshi was matter-of-fact and quietly disturbed.

"Tell me what it says," Hiko demanded

Aoshi's lips pulled into a thin line, as if he would refuse. "…It is a calling card. It reads, 'By the hand of Hitokiri Battousai.'"

"Battousai," Hiko repeated again. That name had been coming up, over and over again the past few days since she'd reached the city, one she had not forgotten. It was clear now: this Battousai was a killer and kidnapper of the most deplorable sort, targeting both man, woman and even child.

"Lies," Aoshi said through gritted teeth. There was such strong revulsion in his word that Hiko turned to look at him. "…Battousai is nothing but a myth now. This is the work of Yakuza, and only Yakuza."

Aoshi turned away from the vigil. Hiko followed, but before she could question him further upon the strange reaction, Aoshi glanced back and said, "Night has fallen. May I lead?"

Finding and securing Miki could be a mere short hour away. All of a sudden Hiko did not care what Aoshi was hiding. Hiko did not care about Okina's mission, she did not particularly care about the Aoiya's anti-protection racket, she could not even care less for the other twenty notes stuck on the vigil offering table — or the strange attires people wore and the strange lights that never died and this godforsaken, utterly strange city she found herself in. The only thing she cared about was getting back her deshi, and in that moment, nothing else mattered to her.

"You may."

Mount Atago.

The next time he shut his eyes, Kenshin thought about that slave cohort.

He thought of that little boy, holding his beloved spinning top, too stupid to find help in the village.

And then his mind drifted to a girl. She had been the same age he was, back then. In the same situation, too. But no swordsman came for her.

Kenshin never saw her. He never knew her. But he'd been informed she had died under his name.

He imagined her lying on the cold, cobblestone floor.

Calling cards stuffed down her throat.

By the hand of Himura Kenshin.

Himura.

Kenshin opened his eyes. As his family rested in the hut, Kenshin sat out on the log in front of the furnace, faced toward the lip of the mountain, the path on the horizon which fanned out towards a grieving, blinking city — waiting for Hiko Seijuro to return.

Notes.

Kenji spends time with his grandpa! Aoshi leaves the house for the first time in probably weeks! Hiko briefly spots Hiko! Kenshin is sitting on the log at Mt Atago like a vengeful spirit!

Also out there is Saito, sleep-deprived and still at the office with Eiji, and Misao, pulled away to shadowy Aoiya duties.

Plot recap: It's been a while since I updated so here is where the story is at. In 1848 Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth's deshi, only surviving heir to the destroyed Himura Clan, ran away. She time travels to the future, where she has no idea of sword mandates or revolution and continues using her sword like it's still the wild east, willing to do absolutely anything to find her deshi. In 1885, Kenshin travels to Kyoto on Saito's invitation to apprehend two separate serial killers: one who is using his old wartime calling card, and one who is apparently using Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. They can only believe the Mitsurugi ryu user is Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, who has come to town to accuse Kenshin of the exact same thing. All the while, Saito's investigation is hamstrung by a mole in his office, a corrupt police force and ineffective politicians, and the Aoiya under the leadership of Misao is secretly fighting the Yakuza's protection rackets and increasing influence in town. Kenshin feels obliged to put an end to the Mitsurugi ryu master's rampage, but also desires to clear his name so he can go home and raise his son. Kenji's fourth birthday is imminent.

This is an RK rendition of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.

And that's the story so far :)