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Hajime and Tokio: Chapter 8 - Rise of the Hachinisasareru

by Angrybee

"Tokio-san? Tokio-san!" Okita Seichii called to his friend. Moments before, she had all but crumbled, lurching forwards and then tumbling off of her stool. He had barely caught the younger woman as she fainted. Bending at the knees, he gently lowered Tokio to the ground as Naoya hopped off her own stool and crouched beside him in the shadow of the cart.

"Oi, Okita-san, what happened?" Naoya asked. The usually brash young woman put her hand against Tokio's forehead. "I seen men pass out from overheating before, but it's a cool day, and Tokio-san isn't feverish or anything."

"I don't know," Seichii replied quietly, "Maybe...maybe something she ate or..." The poet remembered that Tokio had been clawing at the scarf at her neck. Very gently, he reached down to untie the knot that held the long silk scarf in place. Tilting Tokio's head forward with one hand, he unwrapped the material with the other.

When the skin of Tokio's neck was revealed, both Naoya and Seichii gasped.

"Shit. I knew she had a scar, but that is fucked up," Naoya muttered. "What in the hell happened to her, anyway?"

"I don't know, Naoya-chan, I don't know." Seichii tried shaking the slumbering woman, patting her cheeks in an attempt to wake her, "Tokio-san?"

"She's not waking up, Okita-san. What are we gonna do?" Naoya asked, deferring to the older of the pair as the concern in her voice heightened.

"Help me put Tokio in the cart, if you would. We'll take her to her house. Then I'm going to send you for a doctor I know while I try to see if I can get her to wake up."

"Hai!"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Saitou Hajime ambled home via the back alleyways of the city of Tokyo. He'd wiped most of the blood from his face and hands, but he could feel and smell it rapidly clotting in his hair and under his fingernails. It wasn't that he loathed the smell of blood, though the odor truly wasn't particularly pleasant. No. It just set all of his senses ablaze, caused his pulse to quicken, and made his muscles burn with tension.

At least, if he knew his wife, and he did, she'd have a bath ready for him when he returned home. And the only question she would ask would be "Are you injured?"

Hajime knew other officers returned to homes full of chatter, full of boisterous children and sweetly cheery wives. They placed aside the mask of authority they wore on a daily basis and returned to being simple men, husbands and fathers.

Other officers were not assigned to slaughter entire yakuza contingents.

Not that Saitou despaired of his duties. You couldn't jail one section of the yakuza without expecting reprisals from the others. No. You had to completely demolish them, without a trace, leaving the other gangs no idea upon whom to direct their anger.

No. He was not a simple man. That place was occupied by Fujita Goro, a fake, a cover.

Saitou Hajime did not wear a mask once he drew his sword. And his wife did not ask him to wear one when he returned home.

The tall cop hopped a fence and continued down another alleyway. Seconds later, he jumped down from the roof of a shed on a property behind the house on Taito street, landing in his own backyard. Walking around the side of the house, Saitou noticed that the vents for the iron oven were still closed.

Odd. Usually Tokio had started been baking for the next day in the marketplace long before Saitou returned home. In the front yard, Hajime found that their horse, Stormy, was still hooked up to the two-wheeled wooden cart, which had not yet been unloaded.

As Hajime turned towards the front shoji, his heels making a grating sound against the stone pathway, it slid open. Okita Seichii stepped outside, his characteristic smile nowhere in sight.

Hajime's mind reeled. He'd seen this scene before, only months earlier. Just like in Osaka. This felt just like it did when he returned home from the Seinan Wars. Except, instead of Kozue, it was Okita Seichii. The muscles in Saitou's arms tightened as his hands balled into fists.

"Saitou-san..." Seichii began, sliding the door closed behind him.

"My wife..." Saitou said, though, it came out more as an animalistic growl than anything coherent.

Seichii's voice sounded low and clear, "Tokio-san fainted in the market. We've been unable to wake her. A doctor is with her now, as is Naoya."

Hajime's teeth grit against each other in his mouth. Did this have something to do with the strange smell in the air, with the prickling sensation in the back of his mind? Certainly Tokio had not been able to become pregnant again so quickly, certainly she would have told him... No, this must be something else.

"It was very sudden," Seichii continued, "And then she started clawing at her scarf, trying to take it off. The next moment, she fell. Naoya and I...we took off her scarf afterwards and..." The usually bright-eyed man leaned against one of the engawa's posts, his mouth drawn in a thin line that seemed to be as close to a frown as his facial expressions would permit. "What happened to her, Saitou-san?"

"After the Hitokiri Battousai killed her parents, she ran to hide in a forest. Tokio fell and punctured her throat," Saitou replied, though his mind wasn't really on the conversation. Instead, he had been trying to decide if he should go in and shake the doctor roughly until some reason for Tokio's sudden illness had been produced. Things should not happen in the household of Saitou Hajime without his knowledge.

"Ah...Saitou-san...you do realize that there is blood dripping down your neck, I hope? Should I fetch the doctor to look at you as well?"

"It is not my blood," Saitou replied.

"Well, perhaps you should wash it off before the others come outside?" Seichii suggested, his voice growing quiet.

"Aa. Perhaps." Hajime glowered at the other man, "But first you will tell me why -you- are here, Okita."

Seichii's eyebrows raised slightly in alarm at the sharp tone of the other man's voice. Immediately, his face softened into a wistful look of recollection, "I took Tokio-san to have a picnic in the park. I asked her to go because she is my friend, and she seems like a person who doesn't often get the chance to smile. Do you find that improper of me, Saitou-san?"

Hajime merely sneered. He could literally feel the tips of his fingers bruising the insides of his hands though his gloves as he clenched his fists even tighter. A cool amber gaze traveled up and down the length of the shorter figure. And that was when Saitou realized for the first time that Okita Seichii was a dangerous man.

He was dangerous because he contained no malice, he concealed no motivation. His smile was not a mask he hid behind. But, unlike Kozue, Seichii had the brilliance to flawlessly back up his every move.

Dangerous because Okita Seichii burned with righteousness, loyalty, and a passion for life.

Just...like...his...goddamn...brother.

"Hmph. I've never cared what Tokio does with her days," Hajime finally replied, turning to head towards the bathhouse. "Tell the doctor to stay put. Send Naoya home."

Once inside the small stand-alone building, Saitou all but tore off the outer shirt of his uniform, bursting several buttons in the process. He tossed the wadded bundle of fabric to the side, too angry to go through his usual process of diligently folding it into a tight square bundle. After his gloves joined the pile, Saitou picked up a bucket of water drawn from the well, bent forward, and poured it over his head. The icy liquid dripped down his face and neck, creating artic trails of wetness over his sharp jaw line. As the swordsman sat on the edge of the bath, his head lowered, watching the water pool on the floor he wondered when exactly his life had become so goddamn complicated.

After repeating the process with two more buckets of water, Saitou retrieved his cigarettes. Ignoring the growing dampness from the on the front and back of his black undershirt from the water dripping from his hair, he lit his match and inhaled.

'Damn Seichii and damn Katsu. I will not doubt my actions. I've sworn to never doubt my actions, not with my sword, and not with my wife. I will not send her away, and I will not treat her with kid gloves. Tokio may seem delicate, but she is not. She is perfectly capable of...'

A sharp knock sounded at the bathhouse door. "Ah...Fujita-san," the cheery voice called, "The doctor wishes to speak to you."

His cigarette still hanging from his mouth, Saitou stepped out into the brisk October air. Next to Seichii, a plump and wizened old gentleman in a doctor's frock stroked his own chin in thought.

Glaring down at the two men standing in front of him, Hajime said only, "Well?"

"Fujita-san, this is Gensai-sensei," Seichii said, indicating the other man with his hand. "He says Tokio-san should be fine."

"Yes," Gensai-sensei continued, "Tokio-san seems to be in the best of health."

The still-damp cop narrowed his eyes as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He didn't like this goddamn quack already. Doctors were never to be trusted. "Then what the hell is wrong with her?"

"Well, I've only seen this a few other times. Your wife, it seems, is just sleeping. An extremely deep sleep. This sort of thing is usually brought on by being forced to confront some aspect of a traumatic past, we believe. Her mind just simply shut down, unable to handle it. Really, it is best to just let her continue to sleep. Waking her up before her mind is ready to deal with the situation could cause her to become very violent, depressed, or disoriented," the doctor explained.

"So, how long is she going to sleep, Gensai-sensai?" Seichii asked quietly.

Shaking his head, the doctor replied, "Could be hours. Could be days. But, someone should be there when she wakes. When she does, she'd best rest for a few days afterwards. Nothing stressful for Tokio-san, ok?"

"Right!" Seichii chirped. Saitou, on the other hand, stepped off the bathhouse's small porch with a resounding "Hn. And this is modern medicine?"

As Saitou walked towards the front shoji of his house, Seichii showed Gensai-sensei towards the gate, calling back to the retreating Miburo, "I'll be back in the morning, Fujita-san, in case you need me to look after Tokio."

Hajime let the shoji slam closed behind him. When -had- his life become so complicated?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Even in the darkness of the room, Saitou could see the gentle rising and falling of his wife's chest as she slept. But, other than this, Saitou Tokio remained completely motionless, just as she had for the past six hours.

The lone wolf stood across the room, leaning against the wall. He'd tried sitting. He'd even done a brief stint of pacing. But, finding neither suitable, he had resigned himself to standing in a corner and chain-smoking.

His lungs burned, but he preferred the pain to the numbness that threatened to wash over him. At least she looked better than the last time...that time in Osaka. Still, he could all but taste the waves of fear that seemed to reverberate in her bizarre detached ki, even whilst sleeping, like a tsunami of thick molasses threatening to crush the room and drown them both.

'What did this to you, Kitty, eh?'

What could possibly cause his usually stoic wife to retreat so deeply into her own mind? Certainly, she'd been nigh suicidal before, but...never, exactly...afraid of anything. Not like this.

Saitou ashed his cigarette onto the already grime-covered wooden floor and then squished a burning cinder with his bare foot. Tokio would probably have a conniption if she knew how dirty her immaculately-polished floors were getting. But then, a conniption from Tokio usually wasn't much more than a quiet, "Won't you please smoke outside, Hajime?"

And, of course, he would comply.

Katsu and Seichii didn't know a damn thing. Not a damn thing.

Minutes passed, timed by the white millimeters burned away by the glow of faintly sizzling tobacco. Even in the dim light of the room, Hajime could see his wife's face. A face he could no longer imagine life without. Maybe other men wouldn't consider her stunning, maybe they would consider her quite plain, ugly even...if they saw her scars. Or, more likely, they just wouldn't see her at all. They would pass her over in search of something more exciting, someone with a wide smile and a cheerful voice, someone who would flatter them and attempt to make them forget the burdens of the world, someone who craved happiness.

Suddenly, Saitou noticed that his wife's breathing had become erratic. She seemed to be gasping for air through parted lips, making a raspy sound like a man stabbed in the lung. Hajime stubbed out his cigarette, and moved to kneel near Tokio's futon. Placing the back of his hand on her forehead to check for fever, Saitou used the other hand to pull the blanket off of his wife.

As the chilly night air touched Tokio's skin, her eyes snapped open. The young woman shot up into a sitting position. Hands flying to claw at her neck, Tokio's mouth opened in a silent scream. She recoiled from her husband, using her legs to propel herself backwards until she hit a wall.

Hajime watched as his wife scrunched herself against the barrier, one hand clutching her neck, the other arm raised over her face in a protective stance. Tokio trembled visibly as she continued to gasp for air.

But, this was not Tokio. No. This was some frightened creature he had never before seen. This was not his spouse. And whatever had taken his perfectly agreeable wife and replaced it with this...this...frightened mouse, would pay. It would pay dearly.

"Tokio," he said, keeping his voice level, "I'm coming over there."

At the sound of his voice, Tokio only pressed her back harder against the wall. Saitou moved slowly, crawling the few steps necessary to reach his wife. When he reached out to tug her arm away from her face, Tokio flinched. Her breathing had become rapid squeaks. She struggled as if repulsed, trying to squirm away from his touch. Finally, Hajime resorted to catching both of her wrists with one hand and holding them at her right side, against her hip. He looked at his wife's face. Even though it was turned to the side, he could tell it twisted in agony, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth trying unsuccessfully to produce screams.

"Tokio-neko," he began, "Look at me."

Tokio made no sign of recognition as she continued to try to free herself by kicking her bent legs, finding only the wall as a target of her outburst. Saitou used his free hand to pull her chin towards him, but she jerked backwards, hitting her head against the wall and stunning herself momentarily. Immediately, Saitou smelled blood as a small dark smear became apparent on the wall behind Tokio's head.

"Goddamnit, Tokio, quit thrashing," Hajime hissed, trying again to control his wife's head by gripping her chin. "I told you to look at me. Don't you dare disobey me again."

Something in the depths of Tokio's mind snapped into place. Only one man would speak to her like that. Only one man would try to reach into the darkness to try to pull her out, no matter what it took.

The frightened woman's breathing became slightly less ragged as she ceased her struggle. After a few moments, her face stopped contorting, though it still looked infinitely pained.

And then she opened her eyes.

It took a second or two, but as soon as she made out the silhouette in front of her, as soon as she recognized the intense amber gaze, Tokio threw herself against her husband's chest. Her arms wrapped instinctively around his neck as she clung to him as if for life itself.

Hajime felt sharp, but silent, sobs wrack his wife's body as she fastened herself to his torso. After running his hand through her hair and down her neck, he decided that the wound to the back of her head was minimal. So, placing the palm of his hand against her spine, he rubbed softly, letting Tokio slowly become accustomed once again to his presence.

After some minutes, Tokio stopped trembling, and her sobs had become just quiet hiccoughs for air. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Hajime pried his wife from his chest and looked into her frightened eyes.

"Tell me, Tokio," he commanded firmly. "Tell me what happened."

The young woman looked away from her husband, her gaze traveling to the sword stand across the room. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were attempting to speak, but all that came out was a pained gurgle. Tokio shook her head and tried once more, but once again words seemed to elude her.

Saitou watched as his semi-mute wife tapped her throat, indicating a now complete inability to speak.

He very much wanted to crush something, right at that moment.

Tokio, however, seemed relatively calm for a person who had just discovered she could no longer talk. Voice or no, there was something she had to tell her husband. There was danger. She had to warn him. In case...

Hajime had started muttering curses under his breath whilst pushing tear-moistened locks of hair out of his wife's face. She caught his hand with both of hers and placed it against her lips.

"Aa?" he asked.

Moving his hand aside, Tokio reached up and brushed her husbands long cage-like bangs out of the way. And then, peering at him very intently, hoping he would understand, she traced an X mark into his left cheek with her fingernail. Then she used her other hand to motion to the sword stand across the room.

It took Hajime only a moment to process the meaning, But, when he did, his eyes grew wide as he caught Tokio's hand.

"No, Tokio, the Hitokiri Battousai is dead." Saitou said through frowning lips. A brief thought that Tokio had progressed somehow from suicidal to delusional passed through the Miburo's mind. But, she'd never really indulged in such fantasies before. If she had hallucinated the infamous assassin, why do so now? Still, no one had seen the easily identifiable swordsman in over ten years. He had to be dead. "He's gone, Tokio. and even if he weren't, he wouldn't be so stupid as to be walking through a crowded city like this."

Tokio shook her head as she clasped her husband's hand tightly in her own. He watched as she mouthed one inaudible word in the darkness, her shoulders quaking violently.

"Alive."

Saitou Hajime drew air in through his nose as Tokio's honey colored eyes peered into his own. As afraid as she was, her eyes bespoke no madness, no delusional unclarity. Tokio's certainty resounded with crystal precision like the tones of a wind chime before a storm.

She had seen him, she had seen the Hitokiri Battousai.

Saitou could feel his flesh crawl, burning with the need for battle, itching for his sword. All at once, he understood. The bloodlust, the frustration, the strange atmosphere that had settled over Tokyo which he could not place, they were linked to his reaction to the return of his old rival. The Battousai's ki, his presence, had begun to permeate the city, subtly reminding the ex-Shinsengumi captain of the Revolution.

Then Saitou remembered what the old yakuza boss had said earlier in the day about the boy Myojin. "Some girl came...and some swordsman. They took Yahiko just a few days ago." A swordsman. A swordsman who could stand against the entire yakuza. Was it him? And if so...why would he do such a thing and leave witnesses? Perhaps years of isolation had driven the legendary assassin to his own sort of madness, or worse, carelessness.

As her husband became stone-faced in thought, Tokio moved one of her hands to rub gingerly at her throat. When she woke, she could have sworn the wound had somehow re-opened, that she bled endlessly from the old scar. Now the mangled flesh only throbbed lightly underneath her touch. She could tell that she hadn't, in fact, been any further injured. Nonetheless, her throat refused to cooperate in the production of words.

It had taken some time after the original injury, she remembered, to learn to speak again. Several months spent in soundless contemplation of the horrors she had witnessed, of the bloodbath she found when she literally crawled back home after the sun rose the next day. Her father's corpse already attracting flies, her mother's face twisted in grotesque horror...

Tokio closed her eyes and fought desperately to shake off the image.

"Alright, Tokio," Hajime finally said, "I believe you."

In gratitude, Tokio stroked her husband's cheek softly, her eyes becoming tear filled once again. As afraid as she was of the demonic assassin of years past, her current state had little to do with the terrors of the night her parents died.

She knew her husband would seek out the Hitokiri Battousai, and the two men would fight until one of them no longer lived.

One strong hand cupped Tokio's face, a calloused thumb sweeping over the corner of her eye to brush away a tear. A low, crisp voice asked, "Will you be strong for me, Kitty?"

Tokio nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to fight the urge to cry. Bending forward, he placed a gentle kiss on his wife's forehead before saying, "Then stop crying and go back to bed."

As the young woman crawled back onto the futon, Saitou Hajime stood and crossed the room. In front of the elaborate stand holding his swords, he stopped and bent to pull one from the rack. He needed his katana, not that piece of crap police-issue sword. Unsheathing it halfway to check, Saitou stared at the bright gleam of the metal for several seconds before something hit his back/

Tokio's arms curled around her husband's stomach from behind as she trembled. She clutched him fiercely, trying to will him not to leave, not tonight, not yet.

Swiftly re-sheathing his sword, the tall swordsman addressed his wife. "I told you to go to bed." When Tokio didn't move, he ran his hand over her forearm and added, "I'm not going anywhere, Kitty."

Tokio returned to the futon, only to be joined seconds later by her husband. Laying on his back, he pulled Tokio to his chest. And that is how they slept, Saitou Hajime clutching his wife with one hand, and his katana with the other.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Saitou Hajime's desk, like his clothes, and usually his home, had the habit of looking starkly immaculate. Simple. Neat. Clean. The business of killing was often a dirty affair, but that was no reason to let grime infect the other areas of your life.

Unfortunately, the last messenger, an undercover cop that Hajime had placed near the Kamiya dojo, had excessively sweaty palms. Palms that he liked to place on the wooden desk whilst speaking, no matter how much his superior glared at him.

Because of this, Hajime had a wet rag in one hand, and a cigarette on the other.

Nonetheless, the man had done his job. Profiles on each of the residents of the dojo, and their immediate contacts, now lay on the lieutenant's sweat-smudged desk.

It hadn't been hard to track the Battousai down. Suspiciously easy, in fact. Disturbingly simple. The yakuza boss had been more than willing to describe in precise detail the man and woman who had come to their headquarters seeking out the young pickpocket. His physical description of the Battousai didn't much surprise Saitou, but the retelling of the former assassin's words and actions rang dissonant with the Miburo's expectations.

As for the woman, well, there just weren't an exceptional number of female dojo masters, even in the city of Tokyo. With only a mild amount of inquiry, they'd found the shabby dojo, and easily begun to track the movements of all of its residents.

After only two weeks, Saitou Hajime had a pretty good idea of the daily patterns and personalities of the Battousai and his compatriots.

Yahiko Myojin, the kid, seemed to be nothing more than a contemptible brat. He'd been seen carrying a shinai and practicing kata with the Kamiya woman, so, outwardly at least, he was a student of the dojo. However, he had previously been associated with the yakuza, so that put him decidedly in the underworld, even if his voice hadn't even changed yet. Saitou couldn't rule out the possibility that the Battousai might secretly be training the kid for some other purpose. Though, if he wanted to create another hitokiri, it seemed he'd picked a less than extraordinary pupil.

Then there was the newest member of their group, the man calling himself Sagara Sanosuke. Intelligence, however, had linked the nineteen year old to street fighting and gang activity under an alias of Zanza. Zanza. It sounded more than vaguely familiar to Saitou, but he couldn't place it. Nonetheless, the young man did have fairly exceptional fighting abilities for the Meiji era. And, apparently, a gambling problem and a ferociously excitable temper, information which Saitou figured might come in useful at some point.

Of course, the Battousai, or Himura Kenshin as he called himself nowadays, stood out as the most powerful entity living at the dojo. Or, rather, he should have stood out. But, in fact, all the reports indicated that the legendary hitokiri spent most of his time doing household chores, cooking, and playing with children. And, to top it all off, he carried a sakabatou. A reverse-bladed sword. A clumsy tool at best, even though he'd managed use it to fight the young Zanza. So, either the man had a brilliant plan which required him to act like a complete fool, or he had indeed succumbed to some sort of madness within the past decade.

And madness generally made people even more dangerous, Saitou knew.

But the person who worried Saitou the most was the dojo's owner, this Kamiya Kaoru woman. She just didn't fit with the other three. Whereas they all had checkered pasts, hers seemed spotless. And why would any woman, living alone, suddenly take in three complete strangers? That wasn't madness, that was just ridiculously stupid. She stuck out like a sore thumb, with no obvious link to the other three. Unless, perhaps, the Battousai had decided to use her for her fighting abilities. Was he building some sort of gang? And how had he convinced this innocent woman to join up?

The whole affair made Saitou want to march over to that goddamned dojo and demand an explanation.

But, no. Patience. He had to find out everything before he confronted his old rival.

Saitou put down the wet rag and picked up the file on Kamiya Kaoru. Flipping through it once again, he read a name he hadn't noticed before.

Gensai.

That...little...witch. Had she...known, somehow?

This Gensai-sensai definitely would -not- become the Fujita family doctor. Saitou exhaled sharply through his nose. The old man -seemed- clueless enough, but he definitely could have been sent by the Battousai or the girl as a spy.

But, no. Seichii had sent for the doctor, not the other way around. Merely a perilous coincidence, it seemed.

Saitou reminded himself that this was no time to indulge in paranoia. The situation called for clear thought and a remarkably infallible plan.

'No matter how long it takes', Saitou Hajime thought inwardly as he moved to look out his office window, 'I will learn the truth. Evil remains evil, no matter how many masks it might wear, or how differently it tries to appear. The evil that slaughtered law abiding families like the Tanagis can not be washed clean, not even with a decade's worth of time.'

The sky beyond the police building had already begun to coalesce into light pinks and purples as the sun grew heavy in the sky. Nothing more could be done for the day, and Tokio would be waiting.

She'd been staying home for the past two weeks at his insistence. Naoya and Seichii had been taking turns looking after Tokio, and even Katsu had volunteered to stay with her sister-in-law. But, Hajime could tell that their efforts to console and cheer the now-mute woman weren't necessary. The very next day Tokio had returned to acting normal. She slept the usual amount, which for Tokio was all the goddamned time. She ate normally, tended to the household tasks, gardened, sewed, cooked, and groomed that absurdly obese cat.

Besides her inability to talk, Hajime could only discern one other difference. Upon returning home most evenings, he found her swiping at a tree in the backyard with her iron claws. She'd been training to use the shuko. But, judging from how few wounds the tree had suffered, Saitou had little doubt that in a few years, his wife might just be able to use the damn things to cut fabric.

Well, if an exercise in futility made her feel better, what the hell did he care?

With that thought, Saitou gathered his things and headed out of his office.

He didn't get ten steps outside of the police department's gates when he literally ran into Okita Seichii.

Out of breath, the shorter man clutched his own stomach in weariness from running.

"Okita?" Hajime asked.

"Come quick," Seichii finally managed to say between gasps, "Tokio...gone."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The strikingly magnificent woman who sauntered through the marketplace that afternoon did not fail to turn more than a few heads. Few people had ever seen material quite as fine as the white, silver, and purple robes that she wore. Robes which trailed behind her, seemingly unable to become soiled by the public road.

"Gracious," the flower shop owner whispered, "Have you ever seen such a woman? Look at her! Do you think she is a foreigner?"

"I don't think so. Look at how elaborate her obi is, Mitsu-san. But those eyes...they are like the greenest of teas. I bet she's some sort royalty," her young assistant replied.

The woman floated through the square, as both men and women scrambled to make way for the impressive personage in their midst. Her face shone with youth and beauty, even beneath the light coat of makeup. Paint which only brought out the blush in her lips and the extraordinary color in her eyes.

"She's heavenly," one man sighed as he took a swig of sake.

"Imagine taking a wife such as that," his drinking companion remarked.

Three servants, two female and one large burly male, kept the crowd from approaching the extraordinary woman who tarried only briefly in front of Fujita Tokio's cart, where the vendor's young assistant had decided to stop picking her teeth and sit up straight.

Naoya-chan watched in awe as the most exquisite hands she'd ever seen lifted one of Tokio's embroidered obi sashes and rubbed it lightly against her cream colored cheek. With a noise resembling the flapping of a bird's wings, the woman's silver colored fan opened and fluttered at her face. Leaning close, one of the servants appeared to be listening to the woman's whispered voice. The servant then turned to address Naoya.

"Ienobu-sama would like to know if you created this sash, miss," the servant said.

"No, ma'am. My mistress, Tokio-san, made that," Naoya bit the inside of her own cheek, hoping that she wouldn't offend the majestic lady and therein do dishonor to her mentor.

The servant leaned in to listen to the striking woman once more before saying, "Where might your mistress be today? Ienobu-sama would like to commission a piece from the creator of this work."

Naoya tried extremely hard not to squirm in her seat under the intense stare of Ienobu's hauntingly green eyes. "Oh, uh, let me give you her address. I'm sure she'd be really pleased to help you out."

Minutes later, as the woman and her servants strode out of the awestruck market, Naoya returned to picking her teeth.

Tokio-san would certainly be very proud of her today. It would be quite a feat to have something you made worn by such an impressive woman. Nonetheless, Naoya felt like she needed a nap. It had taken every ounce of her willpower not to ask that Ienobu about her strange purple hair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Okita Seichii laughed and clapped his hands as his friend presented him with a rice ball in the shape of a cat. "Oh, Tokio-san, that is just wonderful. You know, you really should open your own shop. People would come from all over Japan just to gorge themselves silly on your cooking."

Tokio sat at the table beside her friend and picked up her chopsticks. She tilted her head in thought for a moment and then shook it. Of course, she'd thought about opening a shop on occasion. But, such a business venture would require her to spend too much time away from her home. Besides, she dreaded to even imagine what Hajime would think.

"Ah, she's right, Neko-chan," Seichii said, leaning down to address the stoic rice-ball kitten, "Naoya-chan would make such a winning hostess. I'm sure that within a week's time all of the patrons would be falling at her feet, vying for her attention. And then Tokio-san would be forced to stand at the door and beat off Naoya's suitors with sticks."

Tokio tittered soundlessly at her friend's antics. It amused her how quickly Okita Seichii could turn from deceptively wise to impishly childlike.

"What's that, Neko-chan?" Seichii asked the clump of rice, "You want to tell me something?" Putting his ear close to the food, Seichii's eyes opened wide as if in surprise. "Why...you...vile grain-beast! How dare you impugn Tokio-san's honor in such a manner?"

Seichii sat up straight and held up his hand towards his friend, who had by now begun to fan herself with her own hand in an attempt to calm her own laughter. "Do not fear, Tokio-san. I shall protect you from all foes, be they edible rice cats or sinister bowls of miso."

Lifting one chopstick high in the air, Seichii let out a fantastic battle cry before stabbing his intended victim through its head, dislodging one of the raisin eyes.

Both Seichii and Tokio fell into immediate hysterics. For Seichii, this involved rolling around on the floor, holding his stomach. Tokio, on the other hand, put her hand to her collarbone in an attempt to try to keep her shoulders from quaking. Tokio wondered if she'd ever be able to have a meal in the poet's presence without being ripped through a shredder of tears or laughter.

"He died honorably," Seichii cooed with false morosity as he sat back up, "I shall have to compose a wonderful verse for his eulogy."

Tokio patted Seichii's hand and nodded, consoling him on his gruesome victory.

Seichii looked up, his bright eyes dancing with delight, an enrapturing sight for any person in his presence. Tokio wondered if any man or woman had ever been able to deny her friend anything, weary of being deprived of seeing that majestic expression take hold of his face.

"I do so enjoy it when you smile, Tokio-san."

Tokio averted her eyes, looking at her own lap in response. She knew that Hajime had told both Naoya and Seichii what took place in the market, about the presence of the Hitokiri Battousai. They deserved to know, since their association with the Saitous could possibly put them in danger as well. But, neither Seichii nor Naoya seemed overly concerned about the threat at the time, worrying more about Tokio's health.

Though, Tokio did notice that Seichii asked Hajime every evening, before returning to Katsu's house, about developments with the case.

After finishing their meal, Tokio returned to the kitchen to wrap up some food for Naoya. This she handed to Seichii, who stiffed at it curiously before announcing, "No worries here, Tokio-san. I don't detect any gangster soba or corrupt jelly." Seichii chuckled a bit before adding, "Anyway, I'll take this to Naoya-chan and be right back, mm? Oh, and Katsu-san should be coming by. She said she had some books you might like."

With that, Seichii headed out of the house on Taito street, whistling lightly to himself as he disappeared from view.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"When I returned, the place was a mess, and Tokio-san was nowhere to be found," Seichii explained as the two men ran towards Taito street. Saitou found himself moderately surprised that the poet could keep up with the extreme pace at which they had been running, especially after seeming so out of breath at police headquarters. "And, Saitou-san, there's some blood..."

Hajime's jaw clenched as he picked up the pace. Tokio missing. Blood. The Battousai. Tokio.

But, no. It couldn't be the Battousai. Saitou had agents tracking that man's every move, as well as the movements of the other dojo residents. Still, whomever did this could possibly be under the assassins' control.

But, no matter how much the old hitokiri had changed in ten years, this modus operandi stood at the complete other end of the spectrum from a hitokiri's tactics. What would the Battousai gain from abducting Tokio? First, he would lose the element of surprise and risk involving the police. Second, he chanced angering the ex-Shinsengumi captain, and despite what the cliches said about anger making a man weak, in actuality rage proved to have unpredictable effects, depending upon the man.

Yes. Anger and unpredictability went hand in hand. Just one more reason the Wolf of Mibu preferred the reliability of 'Aku Soku Zan'.

Saitou came to a stop in the yard of his house, Okita Seichii arriving moments later, having fallen behind. The front shoji hung at an odd angle, leaving the room behind half-visible. Even from there, Saitou could tell a struggle had taken place.

The Wolf of Mibu drew his sword, just in case the perpetrators had left an agent behind. Entering his house cautiously, he surveyed the disarray.

Furniture had been overturned, Tokio's favorite vase lay broken in a pile of water and flowers. Tatami mats scrunched in odd places, disturbed from their usual layout. And then Saitou saw the blood dripping from the southernmost wall.

"Bring me a lantern, Okita," Saitou said, his voice crisp as he examined the blood. Seichii darted into one of the other rooms and returned with one of the portable oil lamps. The pensive cop took the lantern from the shorter man and held it up in order to be able to view the crimson smears.

The spot of blood stood only slightly below eye level for the Miburo. His gaze darted to the left where an even lower and smaller spot smudged the wall.

"You seem awfully calm, Saitou-san. Are you alright?" Seichii asked, shifting his weight as he watched Hajime examine the scene of the crime.

"Ahou. What good would it do Tokio for me to become irrational?" Hajime replied. His brow becoming sharply furrowed with concentration, he pointed at the larger spot of blood, "This isn't Tokio's." Motioning to the smaller smudge he added, "This is."

"How can you be certain?"

Saitou kicked over a bit of tatami and bent over. When he stood back up, he held a metal object in his hand. "I thought so. Tokio's shuko." Turning it over, he was only mildly surprised to find the blade tips tinged with blood.

"See this spot?" Hajime asked, pointing to the larger spray of blood. "First, it is too tall to be Tokio. Second..." He placed the tips of the claw blades against the spray, illustrating what seemed like a moderate jumble of blood spots actually happened to be four smaller sprays. The claw's blades lined up perfectly. "Tokio appears to have injured her attacker. Then the culprit used superior strength to push Tokio against the wall, here." Saitou pointed to the smaller smudge of blood. "She wounded the back of her head some weeks ago. The force likely re-opened the wound. Afterwards, I assume, they disarmed her and tossed the shuko aside."

"Amazing," Seichii remarked quietly, bending over to pick up a few pieces of overturned dishware.

"Yes. It is certainly amazing that Tokio managed to hit something for once," Saitou replied, pulling something from between two blades of the shuko.

"That isn't what I meant, Saitou-san."

"Hn," Hajime grunted, "What do you make of this, Seichii?"

The smaller man stepped closer to examine the object cradled in the Miburo's hand. "Is that hair? Purple hair?"

"Aa."

"Naoya-chan was babbling something about a woman with purple hair when I brought her lunch today," Seichii revealed.

"Yare, that explains how they found us. Now, we only have to figure out how to find them."

"I think I can help you with that," a female voice remarked coolly. The room darkened considerably as a figure stepped into the doorway, blocking the outside light. Both men turned to find Yamaguchi Katsu exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air. "So, Tokio-san's been abducted, hm? Might I take this brief moment to interject that I told you this would happen, brother?"

"I'm in no mood, Katsu," Hajime growled, clenching his sword so fiercely that his knuckles began to whiten.

Seichii raised a hand as if to restrain the other man, but then thought better of the action and motioned towards Katsu. "You said you could help find her, Katsu-san?"

"Yes," Katsu replied, stepping over the threshold. She surveyed the damage to the house for a moment before pulling an envelope from her obi. "This was delivered to my house a while ago. It is addressed to you, Jir-kun."

Saitou sheathed his sword and then stepped forward to take the missive from his sister. Her removed the crisp sheet of paper from inside and shook it once to cause it to unfold.

"Saitou Hajime," the swordsman read, "Be present at train warehouse six before eleven o'clock this evening if you wish to bid goodbye to your wife. Do not alert the police." Saitou turned the paper over, as if expecting more. "It isn't signed."

"I believe the signature is still in the envelope, Jir-kun," Katsu commented as she tapped the end of her cigarette holder, carelessly sending ash onto the wooden floor.

Upending the envelope into his palm, three fragile objects landed in Saitou's hand. Okita Seichii drew near, peering at the outstretched hand incredulously as he asked, "Are those dead bees, Saitou-san?"

"Aa."

"It's the calling card of the Hachinisasareru," Katsu explained as she clicked her large rings together, peering at her brother with a sort of sour seriousness, "An exceedingly specialized ninja clan. They were one of the reasons I left our home village."

"Explain, Katsu. And be quick about it. I don't have time for any of your literary embellishments," Saitou commanded.

Katsu nodded her head towards her brother slightly, as if indicating she understood his plight. "Sometime after you left, Jirou, young women started to disappear from our village as well as neighboring towns. When the officials tried to look into the disappearances, many of them began to turn up dead. Eventually, rumors circulated about the deadly Hachinisasareru Akumu."

Quirking one eyebrow, Katsu continued, "The Hachinisasareru were a ninja clan comprised completely of women, and had taken up temporary residence in the nearby mountains. According to gossip, the Hachinisasareru's original Okashira had discovered a way to train especially effective kunoichi. It seems that other ninja women were often found out because their warrior training caused them to be too strong, both in body and in spirit. Women like that would automatically cause suspicion if placed in a household as a spy. The Hachinisasareru, on the other hand, had special techniques they used for recruiting, spying, and killing, known as the Four Secrets of the Hachinisasareru Akumu. In fact, many people said that the young women who left to join the Hachinisasareru were not kidnapped at all, but instead were...somehow brainwashed. Because of this, our parents decided it would be best if I left town."

"Are you saying that the person who kidnapped Tokio is really after you, Katsu-san?" Seichii asked.

"No," Hajime interjected before Katsu could reply, "I believe this has to do with Tokio. I've suspected for some time now that Tokio's mother was a kunoichi."

"You married a ninja?" Katsu questioned incredulously. "Ahou! What were you thinking, Jir-kun?"

"I said Tokio's mother was a kunoichi, not Tokio herself. Tokio, on the other hand, doesn't appear to have figured this out. I haven't told her, and provided we can keep her from the truth, neither will either of you. My wife has few enough pleasant memories of her life. There is no reason to destroy her love for her parents by suggesting that her mother likely married her father as a plant for some ninja clan...to spy on him."

These powerful revelations caused the trio to all fall momentarily silent. Katsu switched from clacking her rings to clicking her fingernails, while Seichii wound his fingers into a tight knot in front of his stomach and stretched. Hajime, on the other hand, pulled his starched white gloves out of his pocket and began to pull them on, using his teeth to get the most secure fit.

"We won't tell her, will we, Katsu?" Seichii finally said. Katsu replied by rolling her eyes and shrugging mildly to illustrate her unwilling consent.

"Good," Hajime replied. He stormed into the back hallway and returned seconds later holding a sheathed wakizashi which he thrust at Seichii.

The poet took the weapon and held the hilt at arm's length between his thumb and forefinger, as someone might do a rotten fish. "What am I supposed to do with this, if I may ask, Saitou-san?"

Ignoring Seichii's question, Saitou addressed his sister. Barking his commands in a manner that let everyone know he would not be contradicted, he said, "Katsu, stay here until Naoya-chan returns, which should be soon. Then go to the inn on Wajimito street. Tokio's kidnappers obviously know where your house is, and returning there would not be safe." Turning to the confused Okita Seichii, he continued, "Okita, you'll come with me."

"You do realize I haven't the slightest idea how to use this thing, right?"

Saitou only grunted in response as he walked past Seichii and Katsu and headed into the yard. As the other two stepped out on the engawa, he spoke to them without turning around, unwilling to let them see his face as he said, "The doctor said that Tokio should not be put in any stressful situations. Yare, this is a damned stressful situation. She may be unwell and therefore need assistance escaping while I take care of the kunoichi."

Grasping the wakizashi in both hands, Seichii chirped an optimistic, "Hai! I'll do my best, for Tokio-san's sake."

As Okita Seichii and her brother left, Katsu sat down on the engawa, and looked towards the horizon.

"Hmph," she grumbled. "Men."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Warehouse six, like most facilities serving train stations, sat on a waterway, enabling an ease of cargo transfer from ship to rail. And, like most warehouses, it had the decidedly pungent smell of mold and sawdust.

Saitou Hajime's shoes made sharp clacking noises against the wooden planks of the pier as he walked towards the simple square building. There would be no point, he decided, to attempt to sneak up on the place. Though he had a great deal of expertise at masking his own ki, he decided that it would be better to let the Hachinisasareru think he was playing their game, at least until he found out where they were holding Tokio.

Beside him, Okita Seichii's movements made absolutely no noise, the soft sound of footsteps drowned by the waves washing back and forth beneath the pier. The poet's ki flared as brilliantly as a sun, reminding Hajime quite completely of how his old friend Okita Souji could go from annoyingly playful to deadly in an instant. The two brothers were so alike that it sometimes made it hard for Hajime to remember that this one probably had about as much skill with a sword as Tokio.

Evening had fallen, painting the sky with a slick coat of violet that rapidly cooled in the late October chill. The pair approached the warehouse to find several figures waiting for them.

Two women in servant garb held lanterns, casting the area in a dim glow. A burly man that Saitou guessed to be some sort of thug stood in front of the door.

"Saitou-san," Okita whispered, "I recognize one of those servant girls. She used to work for Katsu-san as a maid."

"Quite astute, Okita Seichii," a male voice replied from somewhere above Saitou and Seichii's heads. "The Hachinisasareru have ears everywhere."

Both men looked up to take in the sight of the figure standing on the edge of the warehouse's sloped roof. Even in the dim light, one could easily make out the features of the striking figure. Long braids of deep purple hair hung down to the person's waist. Glowing green eyes gazed with burning intent from a face painted to resemble a geisha. The creature wore a black kimono decorated with a canary yellow obi. A sash worn diagonally across its chest, decorated with several repeated circular insignia in yellow and black, fluttered violently in the wind as the figure jumped down from the roof and landed gracefully in front of the two men.

"I was certain you would show up," it said with a deeply male voice.

Seichii's jaw, which had been hanging loosely open snapped shut only to open again a second later. "You're a man!"

"Yes," he said, eyes sparkling with malicious mischievousness.

"But," Seichii continued, "I thought all the Hachinisasareru were women."

"A popular misconception. Allow me to introduce myself," the kimono wearing man said with growing glee, "Saitou Hajime, my name is Fusada Ienobu. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Saitou's only response was to reach into the pocket of his shirt and retrieve his cigarettes. Shaking the pack upwards once to produce the desired object, Saitou lifted it to his lips, lit it, and inhaled. Throughout this ritual, he didn't take his eyes off the person in front of him, examining the enemy closely even as he smoked.

"Yare, yare. I bet you've been waiting to say that for a while now," Hajime replied crisply. "I can't believe that, with more than a decade of time to think about it, this was the best you could come up with."