Ch 7 is where 'the fire' was introduced as the thing that killed the Himuras. Miki references it briefly in ch 3 as well.

The Harbour

In a surprisingly still hand-held reflection, three men sat at a makeshift table with wooden crates for chairs and a handful of hanafuda cards to pass the time. One man was armed with a short blade, another with a machete. Hiko studied all this in the reflection of Aoshi's kunai, which he aimed around the corner of a slip in the street.

"Haha! Bingo! You're taking the next shift, not me."

"Dammit. It's that stupid card of yours. Your stupid goddamned bird card."

"You walked into that one yourself."

"Shut up, Fumito!"

They're more fishmonger than fighters — the way they can afford to gamble another round tells Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth how seriously they took their guard duties. She was a little affronted this was the kind of adversary between her and Miki. Miki, with his handful of years of training, should be able to dispatch these men with a training sword. Could such incompetents hold her deshi?

Aoshi pulled back his kunai, cutting off their line of sight. He lingered a moment more, his back leaned against the wall as he pulled more blades from seemingly nowhere. There should be at least six men for security. They'd counted only three. Not that that mattered — numbers were no obstacle to her.

"We should wait," Aoshi said, softly. "Wait for all the guards to show themselves."

Hiko set her jaw. "A waste of time. We go now."

Hiko pushed off the wall, left hand at her scabbard, but just like in the Aoiya Aoshi produced his longsword from beneath his coat and dropped it squarely in front of her. "We need them all within sight. Otherwise that will gift them time to signal, call for reinforcements."

Aoshi cut himself off, put down his sword. "Why do you think they placed guards here in the first place? And six, from the Oniwabanshuu's intelligence, no less. There is something worth securing in there. Something that is worth signalling more Yakuza to protect." Aoshi quietened again. He turned away, as if he'd said too much. "We need to do this quietly."

Hiko wanted to laugh. She took three steps back, turning on Aoshi. "So?" She crossed her arms, her patience on a thread, but she humoured him with another query, "What does the ninja propose?"

"A lure," Aoshi grunted, continuing what he thought was a conversation in earnest. He hadn't caught the derision in her voice, the mockery. "Something that will make the men come running, but not so serious so as to require reinforcements."

Hiko could see it in his eyes before he said it—

"A fire. A small one. It'll lure the guards out to put it out, while we make a bid to enter the premises. We can achieve our ends without bloodshed."

Hiko's mind saw red.

The little line of smoke in the air was like a stick of incense in the sky, slim and single file. Strange, she thought, a fire in the middle of summer. That line of smoke wasn't so small by nightfall. By the time she'd crossed the village to reach it, it was a pyre, burning wild and furious, tongues of flame that stank of cooked flesh and kindling. It had sent every Hanada man, woman, ronin and sympathiser to its ambit, truly like moths vaulting to flame. But it also sent her. Hiko curled her cloak over her head, ramming, with brute strength, through the crumbling walls, looking for survivors.

Himura Kin died that night. So did his favoured son. But not Miki, whom Hiko tore from the crumbling rubble around him after killing his would-be assailants, dragging him away from the cooking body of his mother. "No! NO! I'm not leaving her! I'm not leaving her!" But he did leave her, and while they ferreted down the hallways Miki strayed from Hiko, dangerously, to leap to the next body in his path to check for life. Hiko cut the wood down for exits, and Miki pulled along survivors to the escape, and they went on like that, all the way down the long hall.

The smoke was not good for her lungs. Her chest stung. She would probably have an episode soon. But she put Miki under the cloak and as they ambled by the chaos a piece of debris fell, setting her hair alight. There was no time to dwell about it, other than a few screams of agony, because as soon as the Hanadas realised who she'd grabbed she got to work, cutting them down to defend the child, running with him out of the inferno—

"Seijuro-san?"

Aoshi moved, as if to make another bid — but Hiko turned quickly, slamming him into the wall, hard, his head cracking against the wood. "You're all the same," she grimaced, eyes wild with rage, "People like you only know how to fight sneaking and concealing, hiding behind underhanded tactics. Too cowardly to face your adversary."

But as Hiko stared him down, giving into emotion, giving into impulse, Aoshi simply slumped against the wall, letting her pin him. He went limp and accommodating, eyes watching her with that insipid, quiet, analysing look, so unresisting that even cornering him gave her no sense of satisfaction.

What was she doing? Was Aoshi the one who set the fire to the Himuras? Did Aoshi cause her to lose her deshi? This was useless. This was stupid and counterproductive. Hiko pulled away.

Aoshi peeled himself off the wall. He said nothing, but Hiko could feel his eyes boring onto her back, wondering what had transpired.

"You want a lure?" she said, teeth clenching. "I'll give you a lure."

Hiko stepped out, in full view of the guards.

It took almost a minute for the fools to even notice her, more even then to get up, scatter the wet ground with cards, and go for their weapons. More time, for one of them to call for the others, making up six, seven — eight men in total.

She pulled her sword. Battou-jutsu would make it too quick.

Hiko shut her eyes. She was in the Himura Estate. Everything was burning. Miki was behind that door, screaming for his mother. All he'd get was her: a lung-afflicted, lumbering brute of a woman with her hair burned off and inability to write her name — a man's name — nothing but a live sword, sharpened to the grotesque. The kind of brute that drove off her only deshi, because she was a cruel, selfish master, who cared more about the sword than the arm that welded it, than the mind that hung in the balance — because she chose Hiten Mitsurugi ryu over her master, and now she chose it over her deshi.

And now with the prospect of facing Miki again — an almost insurmountable task right now, a mindsickly thought — she was faced with the fact that he will not bow to her again. Her first and only deshi, who had no one else, who had stayed because he'd nothing — because no one who had another option in the entirely of Edo Era would take the humiliation of bowing to a woman master. He'd told her in no uncertain terms he renounced her ryu, and thus no relation bound them. Even if she met him now, returned him to their hidden hut in the mountains, placed so to protect him, his identity, his livelihood — it would be against his will. He would not be her successor. He would not be her deshi.

That's fine, Hiko thought, as the bodies dropped around her, heavy like crashing beams, burning debris, it is how it is.

But it wasn't fine. Not only had she failed Miki, she had failed Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. She had failed all eleven of her forebears, and perhaps this long, vapid journey was just her cowardice in coming to terms with the truth.

The sound of a gunshot rang loud, shocking her out of her reverie. It sounded nothing like a matchlock. A musket couldn't have made that sound. A cut opened on her arm, a scratch of a bullet. Hiko put a finger to the wound, dragged away a line of blood. She'd been hit? What an embarrassment.

There was another loud bang, a hard collision; Hiko turned, saw Aoshi jump into the fray, deflecting the second bullet with a well-timed kunai.

"Watch out!" he said, and his voice was no longer a low, grinding whisper, it boomed over the harbour, striking her, "Murata Rifles! Fast-loading! Take heed!"

Rifle? What in blazes was that?

The longsword came out again, and from each end Aoshi pulled a — a short kodachi blade? He stood close, deflecting bullets. The last two guards came running with the same guns, loading them with a kind of speed Hiko had never encountered before on a firearm. She ducked, twisting her cloak around her, distracting from herself as a target, then sheathed her sword.

The two men fired.

Bang. Bang.

Bang. Bang

While the rounds continued, one of the men in the back took a small contraption out of the folds of his clothes. He held it skywards, and a jet of colour burst into the sky, a red, bright bullet, like a shooting star.

"A flare!" Aoshi cried out. "He's signalling reinforcements."

Hiko charged, battou-jutsu roaring out of the sheath.

Kyoto Police Headquarters

Kamoda, more bold than ever, barrelled into Saito's office without a care in the world, thudding his fists down on his desk only to scream in his face, "There's been a flare fired! The Yakuza — they're signalling for reinforcements! We have the location!"

Saito finished his bite of plain rice for supper before pushing the rest — including the bowl, and the chopsticks — into the bin. "Where's Sou? Kagehisa?" he said, and checked the clock. Nearing midnight; the curfew patrols had already begun. "Whoever is still in the office — get their units ready, have their patrols change course for the night. Create a perimeter half a kilometre around the inciting incident. Listen well, Kamoda — by no means do these patrols go within five hundred metres of the incident."

Kamoda only nodded. He was too slow to question the highly questionable law enforcement response Saito was commanding. But the last thing he desired was to hand-feed dead cops to a panting Hiten Mitsurugi maw. The Shinsengumi had done enough of that in Bakumatsu.

"Mishima!" Saito summoned.

But no resounding answer came. He was here a moment ago, when had he left?

No matter. Best he kept out of the way. The last thing Saito needed to worry about was the deshi getting uppity right now, distracting him from the mission. He could not fight Himura's maker worrying about Mishima Eiji and how exactly his wife was going to fund him through studies domestically if Saito unceremoniously fell. She had never approved of the boy's decision to enter the force instead of the university. The boy was months away from eighteen. When did Saito last update his will? He had left that conversation with the solicitors too late — as soon as this was over he needed to write in a clause that left the boy with something other than his wife's veiled threats for the state to send him to France.

"Take your rifle," Saito snapped at Kamoda. "Not that one. Your other rifle."

Kamoda stiffened, causing Saito to sigh. "If you will not use the reason for which I have you employed then get out of my sight. I do not need dead weight this night."

But Kamoda took up the arms, following Saito grimly out to the field.

To the perimeter first. Barking at Kamoda wasn't enough. He needed to make sure the perimeters were properly set and that no one would come running to their deaths.

In the Aoiya

"Tonight there's going to be another transport. Ten goods. No, you idiot. You've got to give the goods a break, no one wants to order ten and open a package and realise only five survived the shipment. Feed them. Water them. Like plants."

Above the warehouse, packed between two rotten planks and smelling like fish, Misao shifted in the tight cavity uncomfortably as a rat scuttled by. The movement caused her sheathed kunai and shuriken to brush against each other, letting out a grinding, metal ring.

"Wait, wait-wait. What's that? What's that sound?"

"The roof. It's just rats."

"Or it could be a kid! Fucking get up there — one of the fucking runts escaped the other day. Fucking get it back in a box!"

Misao jolted awake from the daydream, more alert than she'd be after a dip in the Kamo River in winter. Her mouth trembled as she seethed, inadvertently scrunching a telegram she'd been reading in her fist. Misao's cracks were beginning to show. After spending the past five years tracking the actions of the Yakuza and reconnecting the network of eyes and ears, she should have had this handled. She should have had this handled before Himura could uproot his entire life and family to return to serve this city that still hates him with every breath.

Okina had long stepped back from a commanding role in the Aoiya, acting instead as a diverting figurehead. Misao had hated the idea at the start: she was capable enough in her own right, and didn't need her elderly Grandpa to shield her from the consequences of being Okashira. But as much as she hated the thought, the secrecy it afforded her was invaluable — Misao had been able to infiltrate further and effect much more espionage under that cover.

And yet…Okina had returned to intelligence gathering in the past months. She loved him, and knew his expertise well, but she also knew he thought her tactics too soft. Misao was not a torturer, a killer, and she'd made it clear she never would be. Information was more important and valuable than merely violence — even more so with the recent studies done showing confessions under coercion were not as reliable as their cohort had assumed in the past. She'd managed to prove it and elevate subterfuge for years. But now Misao worked knowing Okina's eyes were on her, studying, wondering — if he'd made the wrong decision to pass the mantle of Okashira down to her.

Maybe the only reason he did it was because Aoshi refused to take it.

"Okashira!" Omime cracked back the sliding doors, entering in full Oniwaban midnight black.

Misao's brows furrowed. Her ninja was dressed for combat, with weapons secured to her hip and darts lining the uniform. Something had happened.

"Omime! What is it?"

"It's our informant."

Misao bolted up, a line of telegrams stuck to her forearms. "What? What happened? Is he hurt? In danger?!"

"Nah." Dressed in navy police uniform, Mishima Eiji walked in. His eyes were dark, on edge — but not entirely devoid of affection — he loved meeting her clandestinely to show off something particularly juicy. "Got somethin' for you."

"What are you doing here?" Misao chided, jumping over the table. "You can't be seen here! This morning was already close enough."

"That was strictly police business. The Commissioner didn't suspect," Eiji said, but didn't seem to have the mind to care. Bypassing any greeting or idle chatter, he went straight into the facts. "No telegrams. This is fresh news, happening as we speak. A signal flare has been fired — Yakuza are gathering reinforcements. It's the harbour and warehouses near the docks, Akako Area. Headquarters caught the flare only shortly ago. If they're congregating their people there, then the false Battousai is involved somehow. He'll be there. The Commissioner is probably readying a perimeter now. I'm about to go join him. I'll keep in touch, but you should watch your back."

Miaso nodded. Eiji moved to rifle through his bag. Misao took the moment to place her hand on his shoulder a minute, squeezing slightly. "Thanks Eiji. I couldn't…" she huffed, a half-smile fluttering to her face. "You know I couldn't do this without you."

Eiji glanced back, his lip pulling. "…Duh no. Without Mishima Eiji where would this establishment be?"

Misao's face fell, twisting in comical form as the friendly hand on Eiji became a battle hardened fist, and she beat him once in the shoulder.

"Ouch!" Eiji cried, more theatrical than anything else. But then the goofy look faded off his face into something soft and contemplative. "…I should'a come to you a long time ago. Maybe if we worked together earlier…" He shrugged. "Maybe we could've stopped this from getting so outta hand."

Eiji shook his head slightly, going back to business. He pulled out a small evidence bag, handed it over to Misao. Misao dangled it in front of her nose, taking a close look. "The bullet I pulled from my wound. You got it matched?" she asked hopefully.

Eiji nodded. Misao wondered what the long look was for: that was supposed to be good news. Another lead, where others had gone cold.

"Don't trust any sources that come to this place without my signature, alright?" Eiji told her carefully. "…The Commissioner finally admitted it. There's a mole in headquarters. In his personal office. Right under our noses. And that bullet," Eiji said darkly, "—it's not from a rifle like you thought. It originated from a handgun. Like this one."

From his belt fastenings, Eiji slid out a dark, compact revolver. "Type 26. The newest domestic-made revolvers developed for the Imperial Army. A few did get circulated within the Kyoto Police Force, including this one…but it's nowhere near common. Click this to pop the cylinder." Eiji guided her fingers to the right place. "Look at the bullet."

Misao turned one between her fingers. Her eyes went wide, snapping back to the evidence bag.

"I was shot by a cop?" Misao said.

"You were shot by a cop," Eiji agreed. There was bile in his tone, barely concealed rage.

Misao's nose scrunched. She put the bullet back the cylinder, the cylinder back in the gun, and the gun back in Eiji's hand. "Listen. Right now the Yakuza have no idea why the Oniwabanshuu are able to hit their storefronts, hit their storage, be at the right place at the right time. There's two moles in Saito's office." Misao looked him in the eye, dead serious. "If you're looking for him — he's looking for you. Stay out of sight, Eiji. I'll get my ninja to contact you from now on. Don't take any risks, you hear? And if Saito finds out—"

Eiji chuckled, if a little artificially. "The Commissioner isn't gonna find out."

But Misao's gaze stayed on him, and Eiji conceded there was nothing funny about their situation. "…I'm doing this, because I've seen how he's been in the past months. He doesn't know who to trust. Hell — he only told me about the mole today…" Eiji trailed off, uncertainty crossing his face. But then he straightened up, looking more knowing and regal than ever, "You know as well as I do, Misao. I work for him, not you."

"Bossman just needs a little extra help," Misao said lightly. "We're on the same side."

Funny, how it seemed not so long ago that the two of them stood in the ruined village of Shingetsu, surrounded by Shishio's men: younger and brasher and tempestuous, watching Eiji's parents swing in the wind. Misao had held Eiji as he cried out his eyes, witnessing blood and destruction she'd never really been exposed to until that moment. At sixteen, being a ninja was all training and drilling: she was so good at it that it was fun and games, a mythic legacy already afforded to her by birth. That moment, with Eiji at his parent's and brother's graves, made her realise what it all meant. What she had truly been trained, from birth, to do. To serve.

She wondered if Eiji knew that at all. How much his life had entwined with hers to lead her where she was now. She wouldn't really know how to voice this to him.

Eiji put away the revolver. He donned an unassuming russet cloak, disappearing underneath the visage of a rickshaw puller. "Tonight. Bring your strongest. Shinomori — get him on the field."

Misao felt a stab in her chest, but only nodded along. "I'll bring my strongest," she said.

Eiji just smiled. He tipped his hat down, leaving without saying anything else.

Omime stayed in the room, eyeing Misao walking from one end to the other, pacing. "Okashira…maybe we should—"

"No," Misao said. "Aoshi-sama isn't going on missions anymore. What he wants is tranquility and meditation. He's changed so much in the past years, he's put so much behind him I—" Misao shut her eyes. "I'm not going to pull him back into missions until he's ready."

Omime was quiet as Misao paced the floor again. Suddenly, Misao stilled, her jaw going tight.

"Okashira?"

"Change clothes, Omime," Misao said, and Omime's face twisted. "You're babysitting tonight."

Cherry blossoms in Spring. Stars cover the sky in Summer. Full moon shines in Autumn, and in Winter the snow covers the ground. All these things make sake taste good.

This was the universal truth he had come to believe in. How could he know all those things paled in comparison to…

The smile of a runt. Song filling the room with nursery rhymes. Hands hungry for learning, and a heartbeat as soft as breath as he sleeps, in trust and safety.

Ah. Not his best poem. But it'll do for now.

Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth peered at the sleeping figure of Kenji. After checking he was still breathing for the tenth time, he went back to the block of wood in hand. It was no longer a square block after an evening spent working the wood with one of the ninja's kunai he'd requested: it had been chiselled down into triangular fashion, smoothed with a spark rock in lieu of sanding and in the tight corners of the handle he'd put down the kunai to actually use Winter Moon. Now it was finished. Save for a lack of bright garish colours the energetic little boy would undoubtedly be drawn to, the spinning top was finished.

One last touch. On the underside of the top, Hiko carefully, steadily carved in a date: 1885.

He sat back, looking at his handiwork, and frowned. This wasn't some ceramic pot he was carting down to Osaka to get rid of. This was for the Former Deshi's Son. Perhaps he should carve something else? Some…some vapid little pattern. Flowers, or stars. A nice constellation. Hiko sighed. He picked up the kunai again, and just carved an old pattern from the back of his head. That should be enough to please him. He was easy to amuse.

Hiko briefly entertained the idea of carving his own name upon it — made by Hiko Seijuro — the way the other vain tradesman did. That way, the boy could have something to remember him by. But, like a stripe of moonlight hitting a crime scene just right, his moment of bare clarity showed how just how insane that sounded. Once the nursemaid returned, he would leave the room and that would be that.

Hiko placed the top down, began picking up pieces of stray wood, clearing the mess a little — doing anything to occupy himself so he did not fall into meditation. Meditation, right now, would not be good. Meditation, right now, would only emblazon this boy all over his mind. It was then that Hiko chuckled quietly to himself, hearing how pathetic that sounded.

The boy would forget about him. He was young enough, yet. But Hiko?

Hiko would return to his hut in the clearing, in the forest upon the mountain, upon the edge of Kyoto, miles away from wherever the runt will be, but he — he would not forget. This entire day, this entire sordid day he would never get out of his mind: buying trinkets and snacks and tea to entertain some child he just met. Why did he spend away his day like that? Why did he subject himself to that fate? Now he'd remember, forevermore, how warm it made him feel to let Kenji choose what colour sugar on a stick he wanted.

Hiko removed his cloak a little, peering at Kenji again. He licked a finger, brought it down to Kenji's nose. Good. Still breathing. Hiko watched him breathe some more, when an odd thought resurfaced.

Kenshin had rarely cried in front of him.

For a long time Hiko thought that was one thing about Kenshin that showed the strength in the deshi he'd chosen. Even when he'd first come to him, jumpy, feral and afraid, when he cried himself to sleep on those first nights it was nothing but stifled, strangled sobs, quiet and subdued so as to not wake Hiko beside him. Hiko listened to him cry through those nights, and act grown in the morning. He'd never heard him cry since. He'd barely seen him cry, except in the aftermaths.

It was the strength in him that shined, Hiko told himself, when Kenshin trekked back from the forest with his tears expended. It made him a good clay to work with, one that wouldn't show its cracks.

Now, sitting there with child at his side, Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth understood something that had eluded him. In the market, Kenji had cried and cried. Kenji, who sang when he wanted, who reached out with grabby little hands, who wept in front of strangers, because he, stupidly, wore his heart on his sleeve, and had never been taught to cease this. To hide this. He broadcasted his feelings to the world, because he felt free to express his truths, because he felt as safe to show hurt as he did his joy.

A spoiled rotten brat.

Or a well-adjusted child, acting as a child did.

Hiko pressed the nail of his middle digit into his palm, staving himself from thinking too deeply — no meditating. No dwelling. But it didn't matter, anyway. He already knew the truth.

Kenshin never cried in front of him, because he was never comfortable to do so in front of Hiko.

His resilience was not a sign of strength on his part.

It was a sign of fear. Discomfort.

It was a sign of everything Hiko did to him to make him into the prodigy he was. Kenshin wasn't a fine dollop of pottery clay — he was a boy and Hiko was supposed to be his guardian. Hiko scoffed at himself. The sound was inordinately loud against the four walls shutting him and his accusatory thoughts inside.

"Hiko-san!" A shrill, high voice announced, that made Hiko actually flinch.

The kunoichi burst through the door, nursemaid in tow. It was time. Hiko carefully, quietly, extracted his cloak from blanketing Kenji. The ninja nursemaid knelt, took the sleeping Kenji, and removed him to be put to a proper bed. The spinning top was on the table. The nursemaid took it easily and without thought, tucking it gently with the boy. Hiko didn't watch them leave.

"My Former Deshi," Hiko stated, carefully not looking at the kunoichi. "Summon him."

The kunoichi side-stepped the wood shavings, the child-induced mess in the room, to sit straight-backed at the table. "I can't do that right now, Hiko-san."

Hiko looked to her. Her eyes seemed different. Less young. Less foolhardy. She sat there, calm and measured, ready to make some bid.

"I think I know why you're here," Makimachi Misao said. "Big Himura. He's in trouble. Accused. I know you don't actually think he's out there, stealing kids from prams, slicing paper men into diced meat. Look at him. He's got a kid, he doesn't have the time!" She smiled, and it was the same energetic, over-the-top, bubbly smile from the morning. She would never tire of it. "This city hasn't let go of Battousai. But Himura has. That's why he could have Lil' Himura in the first place, right?"

Her words sunk into him, obvious, but making Hiko see the sense in them. She was right. She had to be, even if the evidence begged to differ. Hiko looked at her, actually looked — at the young face, the almost incongruous commanding air, the ninja uniform. She'd delivered him a letter five years ago, hadn't she? Waited for him to get back to make sure the letter was received straight to his hand. She, Hiko thought soberly, probably knew Kenshin better than he did. What was a discarded master to a close kin, whom he trusted with the protection of his son?

"I'm not going to let a good man get blamed. I'm not going to let this imposter freak run free, terrorising Kyoto either." Misao looked up, making her plea. "I have the location to where the false Battousai will be tonight. Will you come with me, Hiko-san?" she asked. "I need a second."

Hiko got up. He retied his obi, fastening Winter Moon snugly at his side.

"Lead the way," Hiko said.

Mount Atago

The flare shot into the sky, blood red and angry, and Kenshin watched as more flares followed, answering the first, a call for reinforcement — a call surely for blood. Then came the police whistles, shrill and high, like insect song one after the other.

Hiko had not returned. Something was happening in the city, and Hiko was down there. Kenshin knew deep down he had to answer the call, or there would be more bloodshed in Kyoto in the night.

"Kenshin!"

It was Sano that reached him first, bowling out of the hut and kicking ceramics haphazardly out of the way to get to him. "Did you see that? Yakuza signal, no doubt about it."

"Yakuza signal," Megumi parroted, "Not a fake Battousai signal." She pouted, petulant, almost. "That's what the police are for. Let Saito do his godforsaken job and handle this."

Sano's eyes drooped, easily reprimanded by her. But after one more sorry look at Megumi he began rolling new bandages between his knuckles. Even Sano saw the inevitable.

Kenshin reached out, closing his fist around Sano's knuckles. "No, Sanosuke. You're not coming."

Sano froze. His eyes narrowed incredulously, widening and contorting, looking at Kenshin as though he had just spoken gibberish — agreed to go to the station and admit he was Battousai confessing to the murders — and expected him to understand. "What?"

"You are not coming," Kenshin said bluntly.

"Why?"

"Because you cannot fight Hiko Seijuro!"

Sano's expression alone was enough for Kenshin to know just how much he'd raised his voice. Gods. Kenshin hated to raise his voice. He hadn't even meant to do it. He hated being like this around his family, his kin who he would sacrifice everything for. But Kenshin had no idea — he had no idea — how to make them all understand, this wasn't some downtown brawl, this wasn't some law enforcement clash, this wasn't even a two-sided sword duel.

Hiko Seijuro could easily kill Sano with a backhand, and Kenshin couldn't go waltzing into that kind of fight worrying about preserving his best friend's body.

"Please, Sanosuke. Stay here. Watch over Kaoru, Megumi, Yahiko, my friend." He looked up, pleading to him. "This one needs you here."

Slowly, Sano's hands fell to his side. "…I didn't step in your fight against Saito," he said. "Because you didn't want me to. I could have jumped in. The fight would have ended a lot faster. But that wasn't the way you wanted to settle it. Kenshin," Sano asked, "do you know what you're doing?"

Kenshin nodded.

Sano dipped his head once. "I know my own limits. But Kenshin. Promise me you'll be aware of your own."

Kenshin nodded again, and Sano cracked a smile. That answer made Kenshin know Sano knew him better than words could be said. This was something he had to do. Looking away, Sano wrapped an arm around Yahiko, who was suspiciously quiet.

Kaoru went up to Kenshin. "Go. Don't wait for us. We'll only slow you down. You go, and we'll be right on your tail. And when you're back — when this is all over," she said, pulling him in close so that their heads touched, "we'll celebrate our son's birthday together."

Kenshin nodded. "I love you," he said, "Kaoru-dono."

Kaoru pushed him away, and he turned to leave. "I know. I love you, too."

The Harbour

Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth swiped Winter Moon through the air, a blinding, finishing flourish of a kata that stripped the blood from her blade in one fell swoop, before sheathing it with a ring. She crouched suddenly, one hand on her chest, carefully running through a breathing exercise. This was not the ideal place to hold such a thing, but before she carried on her mission she needed to limit the likelihood of paralysis further down the line. A short maintenance now could mean a world of ease later this night.

All the patrols and guards were dealt with. Only Aoshi was left standing behind her, examining the bodies for slivers of any interesting information. No doubt to present back to his Okashira girl. As she focused on her breathing, in and out, in and out, through to the depths; she did not react to Aoshi approaching her from behind — and the sudden cold tip of his kodachi blade at her throat.

Hiko's eyes shot open. She scowled down at the floor, which was running with blood.

"Shinomori," she heard herself say, levelly, "What is this?"

The man had a hand so steady it had barely shook when directing the kunai to act as their eyes, holding the reflection, but now she felt an uncharacteristic shiver to the blade at her throat. Curious, Hiko thought. He had barely reacted when she'd had him pinned. Something had made this placid man abandon his calm.

Perhaps that was not such a feat, Hiko mused, seeing as how quickly she'd abandoned hers first.

"Ryūsuisen."

Something in Hiko stopped. "What?"

"Ryū — suisen," Aoshi enunciated behind her, breaking up the syllables as if she were especially thick, and it made something in Hiko's blood heat up. She was an illiterate, graceless boor, that was true — but she wasn't some clueless stupid idiot.

But she pushed down her anger to shelve elsewhere, because the more pressing situation hit her like a warhorse at gallop. "…How do you know the name of my technique?"

"Your technique?" Aoshi just about sneered. "—Talk. What is your connection to Battousai."

Hiko's brows pulled tightly together, a harsh, sullen scowl shadowing her face. What on earth was this man talking about?

"Battousai's the one responsible for them. The Yakuza. Is he not?" But no, that wasn't it — that information was public. Aoshi was asking something else, something more fundamental than that: whether she knew this filth personally. "I do not know Battousai."

The tip of the blade pressed snugly into the skin of her neck.

"You do know," Aoshi whispered, in a tone that said he wouldn't take any more mockery from her; as though Hiko had just told him she didn't know who the reigning Edo Emperor was, who Oda Nobunaga was, who peach boy Momotaro was.

Hiko's shoulders went to her ears. She thought back on what she'd done to trigger this from the usually collected man. What, exactly, had she said?

"For your actions in protecting my Okashira, I am going to give you one last chance, Seijuro." He put it to her quite bluntly. "Hitokiri Battousai. Manslayer. Master of Battou-jutsu. Cross-shaped scar. Have I made myself clear? What is your connection to Himura?"

Hiko's teeth cracked together. She was so startled she actually turned her neck to see him, with the unguarded hurt and confusion crossed all over her face — dragging her own neck across his kodachi. She turned just in time for Aoshi's eyes to widen, involuntarily, realising instantly what she had done with no control. He ripped away his blade like a hand put to the coals, leaping back one large step. Despite the strange turn, this lukewarm betrayal, he was a just man who did not intend to slash her throat unduly.

"…Himura? Who do you speak of?" Hiko asked.

It was a shallow cut. Only a single drop of blood rolled down her neck, stopping gently.

Aoshi backed away, eyes wide, staring at her the way one did a wounded animal — as though she'd pounce, bring them both down before she'd take more prodding.

"It's you," he explained, more to himself than her, "you're a practitioner of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu. You killed those ruffians that the press have been pinning on Battousai. They think…" Aoshi's eyes darkened, then went understanding, in rising horror. "They think you're Battousai."

Hiko's eyes narrowed into unappreciative slits. She had not the faintest idea how this man could have recognised her style. They'd never met before, she was sure of it. Had he known the Eleventh? But, surely, that was impossible — Aoshi was her contemporary, too young to have known her predecessor. But as for Battousai…if this was some elaborate accusation Aoshi was deciding to make in the middle of their little joint-raid of the Yakuza's slaver's bay, then so be it. She didn't have to sit there and listen. Hiko rose.

Aoshi arched back, kodachi raised, with a terrible, haunted expression in his eyes as though Hiko was a ghost. But he did not move again to put his weapon on her. His eyes flickered rapidly, between the bodies on the floor and then to her: the notch in her arm, the cut on her neck, with the indecision of someone who wasn't sure if they were on her side or not.

Hiko parted her cloak, gesturing to the warehouse. "My deshi may be in there. I am going to cut down the doors and take back my disciple. If you want to draw your blade on me then do it. Otherwise, I, Hiko Seijuro, Twelfth of my name, state that you have fulfilled your word. Your Okashira for my deshi. You can leave now. Your debt is cleared."

Then Seijuro turned on her heel, going for the warehouse.

A few beats passed, and then she heard Aoshi's footfalls behind her.

Following her into the muck.

Notes

The A storyline is Hiko 12 accidentally becoming an imposter Battousai to get to her missing deshi.

The B storyline is everyone else reacting.

Rori77, kokoronagomu and skenshingumi, based on reviews you are the only people reading this fic, so thanks for coming along this meandering journey, this is for you.

Longwinded rambling:

Rifle? What in blazes was that? - I'm sure you have guessed that Hiko 12 is a little behind the times when it comes to technology. In fact, she has only ever been exposed to dutch matchlock muskets, the ones where you have to actually manually apply gunpowder and shove a stick down the barrel to reload.

The thing Aoshi is warning about are the shiny, new Murata rifles, which were the first domestically made riles in Japan (starting 1880).

The thing Eiji has is the Type 26, the first modern revolver adopted by the Japanese army - however it comes a little early for this fic and you'll have to forgive the inconsistency. Type 26 came out in 1893 where this takes place in 1885. I'm going to hand-wave it away.

This fic is intended to match SiriusFan13's In Due Time - meaning the arrogant Himura Kin actually did try to proposition Hiko 12 to train his eldest son Himura Masakazu. (You don't really get this info unless you read In Due Time, which is very good and I know you guys have totally read it.) But she refused, wanting to train Miki instead, who Kin basically hated. In this verse, since Kin later realised the swordsmaster was a woman, that went badly for everyone. Not that it mattered, because 12 gets her wish anyway, when the entire rest of the family dies.

Aoshi is the first one who's got it! He's seen 12 use Hiten Mitsurugi ryu! BUT...Aoshi is the only character who's never been exposed to Hiko 13.

The Misao storyline happens off-screen before the start of the fic, but in case it's hard to make out I'll outline it here: Misao personally takes an intelligence gathering mission. She follows a key Yakuza to the warehouse, where she discovers the base of a human trafficking ring. The Yakuza were at high alert because one of the trafficked kids had escaped (which was the 6yo Eiji and Saito eventually find dead). She is shot while making her escape. She confers with Eiji, her secret informant in the police headquarters, who investigates. Eiji matches the bullets for her, confirming it's a corrupt cop. (We can go further - after Misao escapes, Okina who is the 'face' of the Oniwabanshuu, is actually visited by Yakuza. And who's he 'saved' by? Hiko 12.)

Misao, Eiji and even Aoshi were supposed to be useful plot devices in this story - but somehow they've all become fleshed out characters and I've had to devote more time to them to get the threads to all add up! But I have to say my fav convolution about all this is Eiji. Saito is just so funny, he knows there are moles in his office, but he whines about it to Another Mole In His Office. One of the leaks is his own beloved deshi! And Eiji's doing it for completely fair reasons too, because look at Saito. Haha!

(Saito's throwaway line about his wife willing to do anything to put Eiji in university refers to the Iwakura Mission and programs like it. As part of the Westernisation process, Japanese students and elites were sent away to European countries to study abroad, sponsored by the state. It's not that Saito doesn't want Eiji to get an education, it's that he understands Eiji much more than his wife. Like Batman knows Robin is an at-risk child who needs to put his energy into crimefighting if he is to become in any way a well-adjusted adult, after what Eiji's seen at 10, Saito knows intrinsically why Eiji has chosen the same career path as him. And he needs to give effect to that, if he wants Eiji to live and thrive. Either give him guidance, or he will do this thing by himself. Either teach him gatotsu so he can defend himself, or he will go out there without training and get killed. Either instil in him aku, soku, zan, or he will go out there wild without morals and kill people. And he's done a fine job at that - Eiji is so well-adjusted he knows when to stop taking orders from sleep-deprived Saito, and start going behind his back.)