Den-Den Town, Strutting Around, and Would You Look At These Losers
♫

He was stricken with the familiarity of a different sort of gokudo, the sort who sashayed in pink and flaunted superiority before his tattooed brethren, citing lines from Korean soaps in lieu of urgent business. Isamu, per usual, was endlessly amused as he found Tomoe, but also grateful for his company—there was nothing like a bit of well-organized ruckus to get him grasping at nostalgia again, and though he reveled in the bliss of the lights and the sounds and the spectacle as if they were a novelty, as if he could reach out and catch ticker tape like fallen sakura petals, he feared becoming forever trapped in this haze, to be blindsided by this youthful aura. From the kitsune, he knew vignettes of doubt sprouting amongst the clansmen; said loyalty could only hold up for so long 'til the memory started dwindling and indecision took hold. How they wouldn't hesitate to devise a new order if the opportunity permitted. Yet, he looked to the mikoshi for solace. He saw the men united by garment and cause, so relentless in their support and spirit. Such a sight, fundoshi excluded, made him swell with pride.

The godfather lay a hand on his adviser's shoulder, signaling an end to the submissive greeting. The same hand lightly whapped the saiko komon against the back of his head. Good-natured abuse, that was. "C'mon, kiddo, look around you. Can't have you miss what's right in front of us." All in jest, of course: His words, playfully phrased, brimmed with levity, rolled R's, and Kansai-ben; his expression, furrowed at the brow, turned wry. "Knew you wouldn't miss a chance to dress pretty for the boys. The get-up's good, very geisha of you. And speaking of boys..."

What did they have here? A victim of harem seduction, no doubt. Isamu forewent spoken introductions for a curious, stranger-on-the-subway glare and a cocked head, measuring up Tomoe's confidant like he would approach a red ogre with a spiked club. He sniffed, not too subtly, at the dampened scent that wafted from the lad. Drifting from era to era had granted him with many an acquaintance, most inhuman in nature, and after a moment's contemplation, tengu, long of nose and wet of feather, seemed like a reasonably educated guess. He knew these fellas. Carried chips on their shoulders and used 'em for weaponry, if the Terajima brood was anything to go by. The mere thought of them creased his lips into a smile, small fangs revealed, and his inviting look to the man relieved any tension surrounding them—or heightened it. To call the glint in his eye devilish was understating and offensive in its tiredness. Either way, he felt rather silly afterward.

"Pleasure, truly. We're the yakuza, and I see ya've met our pin-up girl," he said, tossing an arm round the adviser's shoulders, voice raised over the cacophony. "Like what we've done with the place?"

Delightful as this was, something was afoot. Prompted by the humming in his pocket, he fished out his smartphone, and after a spot of elderly struggling with the touch screen, he found an alarm—not to mention a message from a friend who, confined to the beaches of Hawaii, insulted him with the utmost sincerity—warning them of events to come. Indeed, the mikoshi's sudden vanishing would cause quite a panic were one not to notice its quickening pace as it appeared to break away from the festival troupes. The yakuza supporting it gave out one last chant before detouring from the common path, and the oyabun, though relieved that plans had not yet gone astray, did not take this as a sign to rest.

He faced the both of them, gestured curtly, and began to pursue the pheonix house: "You two—walk with me."

That shit was an order.

---

After a reprieve, they moved with haste, and with knowledge of the Alpha driving forward motion, they reigned upon Shirogane like lightning of Raijin. But this was a quiet storm: hidden from view, lowly poised, the juveniles went swiftly with high ardor, trotting in the shadows of their more experienced comrades, going, going, going still. It was remarkable—what had seemed to be a suicide mission had now shifted into a display of tact and espionage; Osaka didn't cry of their attendance, but turned a blind eye, rather, settled into oblivion of the task at hand. The Dogs were not enemies. They did not wage war against the dancing folk, and they did not initiate shouting contests with the performers. They were one amongst the denizens, to laugh and to weep beside them, to throw caution to the wind and drink their sorrows away.

But they were aware, and they ran. Unseen, they cut across the way of the shrine lawn, hugging its perimeter, hiding in the greenery. Although the stairway to the honden was a death trap, there was always a workaround. The mikoshi drew ever closer, and as it approached, the Beta would hear salvation from the earpiece: twenty soldiers, fifteen of which were kamikaze, were at her disposal, and one appeared before her to confirm the situation. It was Itoi, a commandeering kappa in human guise.

"From the Alpha!" he claimed, breathless, to Kaori and Hayato, bowing before them as he revealed a small amulet. Crafted from vile magic, it would resemble the pheonix-shaped piece that adorned the Queller's neck. "If she is to reach the sanctuary before us, we can still get to her. With enough persistence, the barrier will be drained." The dragon was dead, after all.

He resisted the urge to question the source of her wounds. The contrived scheme, he inferred, was taking its toll on their leader. Apprehensiveness kept him obedient, but he would surely bolt on instruction. Itoi added: "We had minor difficulty with grouping everyone. The rival factions are everywhere. Please forgive us, Beta."

All of Nin’s focus, all of her musings and worries and fears, pinpointed on Sachio’s hand on her elbow. Her whole body jerked, mind snapped out of its reverie, and she scowled weakly. “The dragon,” she said shakily, trembling slightly. Trying to pull up some of her usual scorn, her tone sounded forced and thin. “The blue dragon! It is dead!” Her bony finger pointed accusingly at the dark, empty sky. There was no long, twisting tail in the sky, no wings blocking out the light of the moon. “He does not fly tonight; he is dead.” Her voice wavered, perhaps on the verge of tears. Aoi was an old friend of hers; they’d kept company through the long centuries, laughing at the futility of the human race. “This is bad luck. Bad omens,” she said warningly. The balance was off. Everyone noticed the absence of the dragon, and it turned the world onto its side. People were enjoying the festivities, but their eyes searched the sky.

Nin felt weak. She gripped the tanuki’s arm and her tired feet shuffled over to a bench. She planted herself there, face buried in her hands as she felt a migraine of the worst proportions beginning to crash over her mind like a wave. That had been the worst kind of vision; long, full of information, and emotionally painful.

But now she could only wonder. What had killed the Fuku Ryu?

---

A frown worked its way to Tomoe’s lips as his hair was mussed by Isamu’s good-natured hit. His hand froze on its ascent to smooth it down as Isamu commented on his state of dress. Embarrassed, he retorted, “At least I don’t look like I’ve gotten into a fight with a monsoon and lost.” He sniffed daintily, tucking his fox mask away in the folds of his kimono. “I always dress like this. It’s comfortable and it looks nice.” Geisha, his fox-tailed ass.

He watched, amused, as Isamu gave Tsubasa the Glare. It was almost famous in most circles as the most invasive stare that one could be given, even more unsettling than the leer of a pervert or the calculating gaze of a conman. Of all the people he’d met, no one remained calm under that first meeting of eyes. Besides Makoto, of course. But she was different. Even he himself had felt unnerved by this intense glare. However, he felt that Amori probably felt more weirded out by the stare than anything else; he seemed like one that didn’t frighten easily.

But as quickly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by a toothy grin that would make children wet themselves. He made himself imperceptibly taller so the oyabun wouldn’t have to reach so far down to wrap an arm around him. He blushed at the pin-up girl comment, but let it slide. It was an old joke between old friends, and it would never cease to embarrass him.

But then the oyabun’s demeanor seemed to change, and Tomoe stood a little straighter. He knew this look; it was time for business. Things were going to happen. There would be no time for stupid questions, for it was time to move. He sent Amori an apologetic glance, knowing that this wasn’t what the tengu had signed up for when he came to enjoy the festivities, and followed quickly after Isamu.

The deal had been made, and despite being held at gunpoint by 'The Dog Catcher' (which Solo half enjoyed, especially that threatening tone in his voice), it all went rather smoothly. Much better than he had anticipated. Somehow, Solo expected to have to force his hand, but it really had appeared that the Iron Mistress and her soldiers were in one hell of a bind.

That's why people came to him. That's why they all came to him. One way or another, anyone who wishes to get ahead in this country seeks him out. It was for this very reason that Solo The Mad simply adored his job. It was a position of power completely independent of those other spots. See, people like Raja before him, or Terajima's Isamu...they were only powerful so long as their gangs retain control. It was shaky, risky. Too...what was the word? It wasn't...stable. Now, the role of an information broker, a very good information broker, means that you stay relevant. Your power, your mark never fades. People will run to you when they seek an edge. The 'war' in Osaka is a perfect example of the permanence of the Broker. The gangs want to win? They come to him. One gang comes for help on an attack on one gang, then, he uses that same information on the coming attack as leverage with the next gang. It's a cycle that continues the bloodshed, and lines his pockets.

It was a damn beautiful thing.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men," Solo recited coldly. He pulled from his coat pocket his phone, with a few swipes of his finger along the screen a map of the city appeared. A blinking green blip marked an area just a few blocks away, "Your man is hiding out just down the way from here," He tapped the screen again, words appeared along the blip, "The Butterfly. Ah, i've been there. It's a love hotel. Ironic that he's hiding out there. That snake is the only action the worm's probably gotten." There was a wicked look on the broker's face. "I suggest we take a small team. The Butterfly isn't that large of a building, too big of a squad will alert him--and we'll have to get the jump on Noboyuki if we hope to avoid that thing." Solo wiggled his hat. There was a fire burning in his belly, and it wasn't all of that eel he downed earlier into the festival. He was excited.

"Shall we?"

Old familiarity eased an ancient man’s hand onto a thin woman’s shoulder; camaraderie earned her the light rebuke. Hold there, pup, too much of this and you’ll go soft. Don’t forget me, I’m the man who holds you all in place with his fucking gravity, ponderous and inescapable. The spoken word was almost irrelevant, really.

Dominance stared him down, but the Tengu, brash and foolish as he was, just folded his arms into his sleeves and stared right back. Knowledge flared his nostrils, like an old hound dog on the scent, braying and bawling till his prey was up a tree and doomed to dinner. Tsubasa felt his vision sharpen in response, and knew his eyes had flashed, no longer so human. But then, Humanity was the recessive trait here, wasn’t it?

Tamping down on the tell, he considered the words, chewing over his answer as though it would weigh more in the space between than he did, standing in the rain. “It seems a little bit… kitsch.” He drawled by way of reply, scratching the back of his neck with idle concentration. His look moved askance, old jokes he didn’t understand ran over his answers to rhetorical questions, but he didn’t mind.

No, no, if the shit-eating grin that spread over his face was anything to go by, this was just damn perfect indeed. The air was changing, the mood was shifting, and he was catching on. The tingle of anticipation shot down his spine with all the force of a suicidal pigeon barreling headfirst into a shiny plexiglass window, and even less caution. Square-tipped fingers flexed, bringing vigor to rain-chilled limbs, and the world came alive before his eyes.

He couldn’t have been more happy to comply when that old hound barked his orders, never mind that he wasn’t in the habit of following without proper incentive anymore. The roaring in his blood, the electricity of anticipation that ran in the empathetic undercurrent of the crowd, that was incentive enough. A mottled tongue, half-transformed without his knowledge, darted out and over pointed teeth, and he answered the woman’s unspoken apology with a dark chuckle. Make no mistake, the former monk was no manslayer, but he’d be the first to catch the fight-instinct and run with it.

His thoughts were punctuated only by the measured clack, clack, clack of his unusual footwear against the pavement. He’d always been taught that no matter how fast and how hard you ran, fate would find you in the end.

Right now, in the miserable rain, beside two total strangers, and walking into a helluva lot of unknown, well… that felt quite a bit like fate.

The Iron Mistress' bowed lips formed a tight line; half bemused, half cemented into a constrained frown that promised only future violence and elbow-twisting at perverse angles. Bones pop-locking out of comfortably nestled sockets. Muscles strewn across linoleum kitchen counters and fingers rolling across bamboo mats. She would leave a trail of carnage and blood; hauntingly similar to thumping dead-weight heads into sharpened poles—everyone, whether they reacted grimly with shaking jowls or vigilant nods, would understand the message. They would all know the consequences of betraying the Kyubei family. Certainly, it'd involve a series of unfortunate events ultimately terminating their worm-like existences, erasing all tales of their pathetically short endeavors. Rendering them into nothing more than whispers told behind cupped fingers; as a warning, as a threat, as a solemn blood omen. And so, the Iron Mistress exchanged a fervid glance with her Huntsman. It unraveled permissions that needn't be spoken. Their relationship and partnership had transcended mere words and transformed themselves into symbols spoken through body language: through the means of fluttering eyelashes, mutually slanted eyes hanging themselves at half-mast. Rendering themselves curiously shuttered—exquisite curtains folding themselves down to mask murderous intents, amiable in recognition—and wholly breezy in their appreciation of death. If Solo so much as itched his slithering fingers near the waistband of his pants, then Kaito had the divine right to pepper his grinning face with as many bullets as he deemed necessary. Which was always, always, in the higher numbers.

Raja huffed a soft, wanton laugh to herself. It had all the sharp edges in it. She laughed to herself; because it's not like her to dwell on the big questions. There were just too many edges, too many jutting places that overhung any solid reasons for true, genuine laughter. She'd always held the playing cards between her fingertips (too proud to keep them up her sleeves), flaunting them when certain people needed reminding and flattening them across the chest board whenever someone was being particularly unruly. Her demure expression, slick as a panther's slackened maw, would be the one that they'd remember when she was not so kind. Now, who was the one again that told her that nothing good ever came out of trusting others? The act in itself was like slitting your own belly and letting the contents slither through their splayed fingers—just to see if they didn't drop them, splattering them against the grounds around their feet. It didn't really matter. Whoever mouthed those words knew what they were talking about. Survival of the fittest is the law of nature. We deceive or we are deceived. It's about time Raja listened to the anonymous' man's words and took them to heart.

The alternating exchange between Kaito and Solo caused a slight twitch of delight curling across her lips, creasing a sharp dimple across the slope of her nose, before quickly fading back into the unimpressed line of impatience. The Iron Mistress' eyebrows knit together, then smoothed out stoically. Anticipation coursed through her veins, trumpeting for justice, trumpeting as loud as thunder ricocheting through a hollow tunnel. It wasn't something she could ignore, so she nodded when Kaito glanced towards her, then back at their pseudo-massacre-guide. “Alright.” She clapped her fingers together, so precariously intertwined, and pressed her index fingers to her pursed lips in respect to foreign God's the Japanese would never understand. She dropped her fingers and gestured towards the weaving throng; a coagulated mass totting paper lanterns and greasy skewers. “Let's get this fucker roasted so we can enjoy what's left of the festival.” Surely, they needn't call any of the useless members of the Kyubei clan—such as Sachio, the damnable whore-creature. How she'd allowed him within their family, the Iron Mistress could only speculate, over several glasses of gin. The three of them would do; appropriately, efficiently. Expectantly, Raja never excluded herself from danger.

“I'm sure you're not opposed to dirtying your hands?”

---

The Tanuki's fingers trembled. His throat was clogged with all the word's he'd been trying to swallow. There's something in the aged wrinkles, so gracefully placed beside her eyes and nose, creasing Nin's brow that gives him pause and wobbles his knees into two pairs of jellied things he cannot possibly control—and it's terrifying because there's nothing so unsettling as witnessing a person as calm and collected as Nin falter within her own thoughts. A conman who's wavering on the edge of a cliff, usually so dissuaded into giving a shit about anything. He'd already relearned how to breathe, into talking in more of a whisper so that people feel like they need to be closer just to hear what he's saying. But this, this isn't something that Sachio can deal with. His hands remained solidly resting across Nin's elbow, fingertips curled ever so slightly. Truthfully, he'd never been the pillar of strength faring against the tides. No, no. He'd always been the conch clinging to the rock's bared face. The dragon. The blue dragon! It is dead! Heavy stones plopped down into his belly; frigid and unyielding. He didn't have any words of consolation. It wasn't his own mild sensation of grief—because, honestly, he didn't know Aoi as well as Nin did—but hers' that gravitated around him, coloring the very air a few notches colder. It was as if someone had cruelly plucked the stars from the sky and cast them into the ocean. That's how big the feeling was. The size of the sky couldn't even hold it.

His lanky figure leaned forward, enveloped and overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't even create within himself under the worst of circumstances. He was only one of those rare creatures that didn't lend themselves easily to the eye; didn't quite meet the requirements for gentleman or comforting shoulder. His own could not stoop so low, so heavy with his own fears were they. The Tanuki's clouded eyes followed her translucent fingers to the empty skies, waggling like weightless branches. His hummingbird heart fluttered uselessly against his ribcage, lending none of it's strengths and all of it's weaknesses. His companions warnings spluttered from her lips, weakly, so unlike her. Tonight would not end in red wine and bitter laughter. Nin's weight dragged his preferred arm downwards, until the Tanuki quickly accessed the situation and idled closer to a nearby wooden bench. The old woman crumpled, seemingly spent. Regardless of the candy wrappers and abandoned skewers thrown around the benches' grounds, Cheek dropped to one knee, crinkling a wrapper, and rested a feminine hand across the knotted wood—just a few inches from the grieving woman's knee.

“Is there anything—,“ He began to say, then exhaled softly through his nostrils. Her visions were never wrong. I'm only what you made me. “,—that can be done?”

The Butterfly - The Coal In The Rough

The sketchy little love shack loomed before the trio. The rose colored lights flickered through the ratty looking curtains. A neon sign on the front depicting the building's name had just seen its final pink letter flicker out of existence. They stepped closer to the lair. Solo's ears twitched at the sound of passionate moans from within. He smirked wide.

"The primrose path indeed..." Slowly, he pushed open the door. As rosy light poured out, he turned to his 'comrades'. "Well, let's not keep the little shit waiting, yeah?"
The inside was even more disgusting than he anticipated. The air was laden with different odors. Smells of food, pleasure, and other less appealing bodily functions lingered in the halls. Solo guarded his nose by pinching it with his thumb and index. The trio approached the lobby. Behind a tattered desk, a wrinkled woman donned in a bright pink wig flipped the page in her book. Pop, pop, pop! The information broker cringed. He hated when people popped their gum.

"Excuse me..." The woman paused. Taking a corner of her page, she creased it to save her spot in the book. Solo watched her while she nudged it to the side, wanting to see the cover. He cringed; it was one of those trashy romance novels you could find in the grocery store. The ones with the live action picture on the front with the long haired man with the rippling chest. The cover was the only enjoyable part of those books for him. The woman lowered her glasses. With a pop of her gum, and a roll of the eyes, she reached under the counter, and pulled out a rusty bronze key.

"One bed right? It's the top floor, to yer left. Watch the second floor steps, they move."

Solo grimaced. He turned to the Iron Mistress.

"Why don't you take point?"

The garuda felt as if ants were crawling about his innards, and though the hand comforting his own did little to quell their hungry nipping, he was occasionally reminding himself of the fact that he appreciated this touch. Female company was never, never bad; particularly not when they were cooperatively staying by his side. Those who sought to leash him, walk with him only where they cared to go--those sorts would never see him again, perhaps catching a glimpse of a turned back and sprouting wings if they were lucky (and if he were that desperate to get away). This girl he'd discovered in what little time he spent in this land; she was not one of those controlling heathen women, and this was good. He might even feel inclined to visit her once in a while, after they part ways. At the moment, however, Sahen did not allow his gaze to be torn from the mikoshi--possessing avian eyes, it was not a difficult task. The task was maintaining an easy pace, rather than bolting into the heavens and watching the little house from a perch next to one of those fat dog-rat things with the drumming bellies.

He discovered, to his dismay, that the presence within the lifted shrine was not of his imagination. It was something old, and it was something powerful; a soul that would not be easily quelled by a mortal hand. How unfortunately familiar it was, in this respect. Will he be leashed again, if he allowed the one in the portable shrine to go unchecked? No, if anything, it would be his pursuit of it that would lead to a renewed life of servitude. Yet he must follow, he had little choice in the matter. After all, everyone had thought Lord Rama, almighty slayer of giant kings and reincarnation of an old god, was dead. Well, that is, everyone but that stupid monkey. Sahen did not look forward to informing that bastard of his findings (so maybe he won't).

The hordes of people relented as they progressed onwards after the thrum of clinking bells and sandals of heaving men (either they've been walking quite a ways, or whatever was in there weighed tons--the soul was sitting among gold bars, possibly?) It seemed dire emotions could not get enough of him, however, as he soon took note of another troubling detail. Shifting shadows. Determinedly averting faces. Hushed grunts into instruments of technology. They were not alone in trailing the soul. "Stay near." Sahen warned quietly, before balking, then halting his pace entirely. "Mae nang; inform me. How little do you know of the real stories? The sort that tell of people who truly do keep children safe in their beds, unabducted by the grotesque? For I may have brought you into one." And this was not something he appeared happy about. The garuda's features creased with an age foreign to him. Were it merely his own safety he had to worry over, he would scoff in the face of concern, box it in the ear for having the audacity to rear its head. The back of his neck was prickling--ah, because the skin in that area was giving way to a more feathery texture. His instincts would not allow him to hold his human guise for much longer, it seemed.

Sahen released Shirayuki's hand (she had such soft, tapering fingers...) while distancing himself from her by a step. "Would you still come with me? Or I could meet up with you in a little while. I am sorry." It was a little embarrassing actually, cutting a date short in this way. If fate didn't grab him by the elbows (which were getting fairly tight in the sleeves at the moment, damned overeager underarms). But what choice did he have? He did not wish anyone to unknowingly wander into danger beside him. The Gods were aware that's happened enough times for him to learn from it.

The Catcher and the Hound – Rough Days Are Rollin'

She'd seen her fair share of brothels, dingy little love shacks, and grossly overpriced prostitute stations. The smell of incense was thick and heavy in the air – to hide the musky smell of sweaty bodies, sickly odours and heavy-petting activities. Inside, a husky servant mutely offered takes their coats and hats, proffered hands sweeping outward, until nothing dropped into his fingers. Mutual stares of aggression sent him backtracking behind the wooden desk like a scuttling crab. A dozen screens displayed a variety of girls: blondes, redheads, brunettes, with skin of almost every hue. Some were nude; others had cheaply made oriental costumes. Most of them were alone, quietly, silently, obediently waiting. Some sat demurely; others display themselves in poses that made the Iron Mistress screw up her eyes in consternation. Breasts bared and thighs jiggling with slow, methodical movements.

“Tweak some nipples and see what happens, boys – let's get in, get the fuck out, and enjoy ourselves. It's not every day I catch one of my own being naughty.”

The Iron Mistress nodded, gesturing idly, before stepping aside so that Solo could take the lead. Even she could admit that she wasn't familiar with this place – didn't know the ins or outs of the hallways or where, exactly, that little slime bag would be squatting. Invincible, untouchable. She felt an electrifying thrum pulsing down her forearms, thick as syrup in her veins. She was raw. She was explosive. She worked on gut instinct, winding together like well-oiled cogs: decisively cruel. As a child – it was what she lived for. Climbing trees and breaking bones, riding bikes into poles and grazing knees. She liked action, liked adrenaline rushes. The bubble-popping receptionist only curried her renewed aggression, callow and coarse. Her thoughtfully allocated steps brought her in front of the desk. Instead of resorting to passive conversation like Solo had, the Iron Mistress slapped the bronze key from the lady's manicured fingers and grabbed her chin, pulling forward, hard. The woman's eyes bulged hotly: half from surprise, half from the stripling fear that she'd be forced to carry out the command while her face was captive: “Best swallow that gum, tits.”

The wrinkled woman swallowed thickly. The Iron Mistress smiled, leaning across the chipped wooden desk, artfully decorated with pen scrapings and heart-encircled names, until she finally released her with a final cheek-pat. She snatched up the fallen key, pinching it between her fingertips as if she were dangling a bone in front of a dog. This was going to be a beautiful, sweaty, messy prize. She tipped her head forward, ushering them to fall in behind her. Graceful, as always. Even if she wasn't particularly known for her precautions, she didn't feel like throwing it all in the wind and getting caught with her panties down. Her steps, while calculatingly slow, seemed to avoid the creaking planks and possible rotting areas – and her blood, her blood sang the closer they came. It was in the twist of her lips. It was the way she unconsciously cradled the hilts of her throwing daggers, strapped disconcertingly across her upper thigh. There it was: his door. Was he waiting? Was he blubbering in the corner?

He would kneel.

Shirayuki did not have a bird’s eyes, but she had all the empathy of the truest still-bleeding heart, and she learned more from watching him watch the mikoshi than the mobile shrine’s fluttering drapes could ever teach her. Perhaps she could not understand the tense line of his jaw, could not comprehend the reasons for such intense focus in one she’d thought as flighty as an August breeze between skyscrapers, but observation was not the same thing as comprehension.

“Stay near.” The words reverberated, sending a thrumming trill up her arm from the place they touched, rocketing through her limbs and up into her throat, down into the ground as though the command itself were growing her the roots she needed to do just that. Upon further consideration, it was not so much a physical thing, but a visceral one: the mandate, for it was no simple entreaty, rippled across the surface of her soul, if indeed she had such a thing in the first place.

Before she could scarcely register the impact of whatever it was that he’d just done (for surely, it had been something; she was meek, but not subservient by nature), time seemed to pick back up at its normal pace and he was speaking again, the words lighting a kind of mirthless amusement in her eyes, for oh, if only he knew.

Her understanding of such things was not grand. She would not pretend to be a power-player in a game where she barely registered as a piece on the board, the lowliest of pawns, if that- no, half a pawn, and half the unwitting victim of so much chess. Still, it was a reality that she knew, that she had come to know always through violence. When had she discovered it? Was it the first time she was elbow-deep in the blood of a dying tanuki, trying to sew him together enough that he might survive to fight another day? Was it even earlier, when some assailant she could not remember had torn out her throat with his or her teeth, leaving her forever bereft of whatever small gifts had been afforded her in the grand scheme of things?

Or, perhaps, was it simply when her mother had left, unable to live in a human’s world with a human’s rules, but unwilling to subject herself to ‘baser’ yokai? Sometime between then and her father’s desperate, lovestruck (after so much time!) pursuit, when at last the faces of his children had mocked him long enough?

But, though perhaps a few of these thoughts might have flickered in troubled frowns and downcast eyes across her face, she would not answer so, for it would require a rudeness not in her nature, to so thoroughly shut down the presumption that she still wore the whitewash of the innocent. And perhaps, perhaps she did not quite want him to know this of her, not just yet.

Shirayuki fixed Sahen with a look, furrowed of brow and gentle in reproach, lifting her chin stubbornly and stepping forward a few strides to draw even with him once more. If I am to endure this once more, let it be of my choosing, and for better reasons than before.