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It's in the attachment since my rescued computer=20
doesn't seem to be able to cut and paste properly.
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-- File: Sensei.txt
Disclaimer:
RK is not mine. Nobuhiro Watsuki own it.
Apologies for mentioning Stefen Gagne, Chris Angel and
Brett Handy without permission. I just mention them, they don't
show up so calm down.
C&C is requested, especially the positive, gives-meanin-to-the
aching-pain-in-heart types.
And if the formattin sucks tell me and I'll try to bloody fix it.
BTW, this is rather PG-13 so be ready for disgusting stuff and nudity. ^_^
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I savored the smell of barbecuing chicken intestines, blood, chicken heads, chicken feet, pig ears and pig intestines as I waited in front of the local barbecue stand, a street corner away from my apartment.
"Eto na ho, Manang Elsa," (Here it is, Madam/old-timer Elsa) Manong Jess, the proprietor of the little streetside establishment, addressing me by the title of "manang".
"Manong Jess naman! Masmatanda ka pa sa akin, eh, tinatawag mo na akong manang!?" (Old-timer Jess! You're older than me and you call me madam!?) I responded, mock-outraged at the white-haired barbecue vendor.
"Mag-asawa ka na kasi, Manang. Ang rami naman diyan na magandang lalake na liligaw, ah!" (Marry already, madam. There are many handsome men who would court you!)The gap-toothed grin on the old man's face held all the warmth of a father has for a daughter.
"Bata pa ako, manong. O ano, ayos na ba ang isaw ko?" (I'm young yet, old man. Well, my barbecue ready?) I asked hungrily as I looked at the five long strips of chicken intestines set on five separate sticks. Manong Jess picked them up and dipped them in a jar of vinegar and onion.
"Limang piso lang ho." (Five pesos only.)
I paid the old man five pesos and took the five sticks from him, careful of getting any of the vinegar that dripped from it on my slacks or blazer. I nodded a goodbye and went on home, one hand holding my pre-dinner snack, my left holding the plastic bag that had my rather extravagant dinner: half of an Andok's lechon manok, grilled chicken just the way I liked it. Two packs of rice I bought at the carinderia at the bus terminal would go over with the chicken and the chicken intestines really well.
I devoured three sticks of intestines before reaching home, the three-story apartment building that my parents gave me as a college graduation present. Not like I own it. I'm more in the capacity of a landlady for the place, collecting rent and all that. One of my more anime-oriented friends who had seen the building and myself during my more landlady-ish days once commented that I should just name the place Maison Ikkoku and have every member of the household call me Kanrinin-san. I promptly smacked her for that remark with my broom.
It does look like a concrete version of Ikkoku-kan, though it does have three floors. I have the top floor and access to top floor, which I've converted into my personal exercise yard and sometime sunbathing spot. As if there are any other taller building around here, being at the outskirts of the Metro Manila region. My humble domain is located on a parcel of land that my parents bought in what could be described as a partially suburban area. Most houses are one or two-story affairs. My abode is the tallest one in the area and a noticeable landmark. The place is fairly green since there are still plenty of trees all over the place and some of the greener and sturdier ones are in my property so I keep them well taken care of.
I finished of the last two strips of chicken guts and threw the sticks into the bushes. I pushed at the outer gates and found them unlocked. It wasn't eight yet so that was normal and to be expected. Heck, I was the landlady. I had the prerogative to stay out as long as I wanted. The outer lamps were lit and they illuminated the simple driveway. Two cars, a motorcycle and a bike. Everyone was here. And the children had enough of a playground in the backyard. So I locked the gates after another visual check.
I entered the house proper, waving a hello to the Hidalgos who lived on the first floor from outside their dining room window. They were having a late supper. Henry must have come home late again.
"Kain, Elsa!" (Eat, Elsa!) Henry said the normal invitation to eat when a friendly visitor dropped by as he spooned a mouthful of rice with what seemed to be his wife's specialty - giniling, a viand made of ground meat mixed with vegetables in a soup.
"Ate Elsa, ang ganda natin ngayon ah! May nahanap na ba?" (Elder sister Elsa, you look beautiful today! Found someone already?) May Hidalgo jokingly asked as she fed her two-year old son.
"Wala pa. Sobra kasi akong tomboy, eh." (None yet. Probably because I'm too much of a tomboy.) I responded with a smile as I ran one manicured hand through my recently cut short black hair. I asked Rickie at the parlor to give me a custom job and I showed him a picture of Haruka Ten'ou with the front, back and side profiles shown. I was in one of my moods when I woke up that morning, deciding to give my old college haircut a spin. Most of my college pictures are quite embarrassing and I just can't rip out my yearbook pic so I settled for printing out a Haruka picture. He gave me a weird look but he complied quite happily. I also had a full beauty treatment: hot-oil, facial, manicure, massage, everything. Though that put a big dent in my budget it was well worth it. Besides, a girl's got to splurge now and then.
"Hi, Tita Elsa!" Michelle, the Hidalgo's precocious four-year old, said after chewing her giniling and rice.
"Hi, Mitch," I said, calling her by her nickname. "Kakain pa ako, kaya bukas na lang." (I'm going to eat now, see you tommorow.) The Hidalgos nodded in response as I waved a light goodbye.
As I took the stairs, I contemplated my day. A pretty nice day overall. My usual morning workout on the roof, performing all the barehanded and weapon kata I've managed to learn from all the members of the Family along with the stuff I learned from the other interesting people I've met in what has been a surprisingly strange life. I noticed my sword forms were off, but since I haven't seriously used a sword or a bolo in years that was to be expected. Had to check up on someone who's willing to spar. After that a nice little shower and dressing up in my going-out casual outfit: a white feminine blouse, black slack, a red blazer and, of course, my ever-present military boots. Plus the wire-rim glasses and the nice little ankh earrings I bought once at a bargain store. My straight-backed, black umbrella completed the ensemble.
After that I slipped in various pieces of my going out equipment. I hate handbags, so I had tailored up my blazer myself for extra inside pockets and made it a bit loose for a couple of stuff that I had to hide. Though considering the places I had to visit, I had to hide two of them under my slacks.
Second floor and the other half of my tenants. Seems Dennis is quiet tonight. And by the sound of it the new girls that occupy the rooms that comprise the other half of the floor are settling in. The Hidalgos and the De Guzmans had the ground floor. I didn't get to see the De Guzman's but they're probably all right, with Jimmy's car already in and Kenneth's bike stowed in front.
Anyway, after dressing up, I went to my school first to check up on my desk and to stick in something that I deemed necessary. And for the usual pre-class briefing. June is coming round the corner again and classes will start in three weeks so everyone's expected to have a viable lesson plan submitted to the department head a week before the classes begin. I have spare lesson plans I made a year ago, so I don't have to worry about that. Got a really great surprise when I found out the English department moved to an air-conditioned room in the recently completed new building addition.
After that I spent my day bumming around town. Well, after of course, receiving the most complete beauty treatment I had in years. Visited a nice little apothecary in Chinatown for a few herbs and visited a few training halls there. Had lunch at a wonderful little Chinese restaurant where my grandmother used to work as a waitress and visited my cousins in the area. A quick trip to Quiapo for a few esoteric items and to contact a nice little old lady that knows enough of the darker side of religion than most people know, along with a Spanish priest that I knew of. Since that little incident at the National Library I have a distinct feel for things like this. You could say it's in my blood now.
A few more visits to some people, along with a few relatives that needed my assistance and dropping by on a Japanese friend of mine who owns a grocery-cum-bookstore, for a look-see on the manga that he and his wife brought over this month. A good little kaffeesklatsch with Claude, the only woman I know who insists on being called by the masculine version of her name, an old friend from college. Made a joking pass at her, a bad habit I have from my college days. And she made the obligatory joking response between us of the fact that I was only being her friend for the sex. Pity I had other stuff to do or I'd have stayed at her place all afternoon and night.
After that a good little spin around the second hand bookstores and antique shops for prospective purchases. You can't believe what you find at these places. Found a steel machine-made katana from World War II. Now that would make a nice conversation piece if anything else, though the Family's main house has six of these along with one commissioned one when an uncle of mine was on a samurai kick. Another find were a few interesting books that in my opinion would be better kept in private hands. Bought those immediately with a credit card and sent them direct to a few of my professor friends and scholars for authentication and asked them to be sent to the Family's vaults at the main house after they had been confirmed.
A full day if I say so myself. My smile quickly turned to a frown as I stopped before the door to my personal suite. The tickling at the back of my mind was getting stronger. I had it since morning but I ignored it. Now it was definitely not something I could ignore. Narrowing my eyes, I looked around for signs of a possible intruder. None. But that just means he or
she didn't enter via conventional means. That means that if there was someone inside like my instincts were telling me, he or she was probably very good. Or was one of my more special guests.
My frown deepened. The stairs alone were proof to quite a few of my more supernatural acquaintances, being peppered with simple wards when I was first given this house, a fact I reinforced via regular blood sacrifice. The blood sacrifice on the roof of the chicken and the Catholic blessing that followed eliminated more of the usual suspects. So, none of the members of the local folklore could have probably gotten in.
Foreigners? I try not to piss off any of them in my dealings but my Family has a tendency to make enemies. Chinese? Nah... had enough friendly Feng Shui specialists and Taoists to help me set up the wards on the stairs and especially the outer walls that surrounded my building mixing them along with the broken glass and barb wire I had put on the walls, not to mention the rooms themselves. Heck, Grandma herself checked. I looked up at the simple charm on top of my door. It was undisturbed. Japanese? Nope, usually Chinese charms worked on most of the East Asian supernaturals. And the latin oracions I recite on the full moon along with the stuff from an acquiantance in Siquijor and several albularyo friends of my granduncle left me a few bottles of oil that I left at several places in the building and the roof that would repel, discomfort or seriously burn any other things of Asian origin. So no aswang, engkanto, kuei, yorei, gaki, penanggalan, rakshasa or whatever can come into my little occult fortress. European? American? I haven't pissed off any demons from Europe, but if I did, the Church latin stuff should have kept those out and the last time I checked the Great Spirit and Quetzalcoatl weren't pissed off at this particular Filipina.
But as I said it kept most things out. There were several things that could still get in. And the tickling in the back of my mind was getting stronger. I couldn't access my more devastating capabilities since I had them sealed away a long time ago. So, I only had what I had on me and whatever I could scrounge up when I go in. Damn.
I hope this doesn't spill over downstairs. I bent down and pulled my slacks up to get my paltik, a homemade pistol just like Grandfather used to make. Easily disposable and almost impossible to trace via forensic ballistics, the one-shot gun was my concealed firearm of choice. Home made, too, if you had the right supplies and a master paltik maker as your teacher. I have three of these: one under my bed, one for going out and the last one I have strapped beneath one of my desk drawers at the English department office. I do have to change them every three months or so, but since they're made mostly of scrap, they're technically free. I would have gone for a .45 right now, but you can't just hide a .45 on your person. A derringer would have been welcome, but those could be traced and too damned expensive to just throw away. The wooden stock of the paltik felt fragile in my hand. One shot and it would be useless like it was supposed to be. I soundproofed my rooms when I moved in, so no worries about the gunshot being heard. My right hand held my umbrella at a relaxed ready stance from my cane fighting training, the solid metal point pointing downwards. This wasn't one of my Family's special umbrellas, so no weird stuff like a sword or a dart gun. I slipped the paltik into my blazer and got my key out.
I whisper a simple latin oracion, a simple prayer chant that I learned during my arnis training. Technically, it's more like Philippine Folk Christianity's version of a spell, the best description of it, however, is as a combat mantra or koan. It's total gibberish but it helps me center myself for combat or a challenge.
With a swift movement, I unlock the door, open quickly, get in and close it in a series of quick motions that the Shadow would have been proud. My left hand pulled out my homemade pistol in the same motion I dropped my keys.
I was greeted by the dark shadows of my living room as I surveyed the scene. Trained reflexes kicked in and I checked the room for possible hostiles, my left hand with my modern version of the flintlock pistols of yore moving in a half-circle as I checked for any hostiles. The grip of my right hand on my umbrella had the right amount of tightness retaining the flexibility of the wrist for immediate action.
No one. I tried to peer into the shadows in the corners of my living room, sparing a glance to the balcony entrance. Still no one. Whoever this was, he or she or maybe even an it, was good. Either that or I'm overreacting and kicked in my paranoia into overdrive.
I was in a crouched position and I duck walked, in other words waddled, into the next room, silent even with the heavy military boots I had on. Keeping up my stealth training was paying off, other than trailing prospective boyfriends through Manila's city streets it seems.
I entered my computer room. The white, sanitary light of my Windows desktop from my newest acquisition, a not-so brand-spanking new, second-hand computer my uncle managed to salvage from the company he works for, fought the darkness back a little, but still the shadows seemed darker because of the light. My uncles in my parent's opinion spoil me too much. My other computer I transferred to my small library and the last one is by my bedside. They're always turned off properly when I go out, so the thought of an intruder in the premises wasn't exactly the result of paranoia. I stood up and gazed at what was on the screen:
YOU HEAR THE CALL.
WHY DO YOU NOT COME?
Shit. Not this again.
I felt the tickle in the back of my head explode into something more substantial as I felt the seals that were set on my body, mind and soul crack open. The sound that accompanied that rather traumatic event was indescribable.
NO. I fell to my knees, gun and umbrella falling out of my hands as I put them up to my ears, trying to stop the sound of supplications, silent prayers, lamentations, the wailing of men, women and children.
I really, really hate this. The seals had stopped me from touching the powers that went with an office that I assumed a long time ago. Not like I was that old. I looked like a kindly teacher in her mid-twenties, but actually I'm far older than that. No one knows, even the Family does not know my great secret, a secret that traces itself back to the incident when I was a college senior. When I found a book that was a portal, or portal that was a book and how I got thrown through worlds upon worlds, through time beyond mind, and to places beyond imagining.
And after getting what I always dreamed of, a life of wild adventure and incredible experiences, I wanted to go home.
But getting into the nightmare wasn't as easy as getting in. The prayers, the summonings, the multitude of voices in my head all calling for me was part of the price I had to pay for getting home. Along the way I had to do other things, to achieve the ultimate goal of being able to go home.
To make everything simple and short, I became a goddess.
Not anything like the Three Sisters, Norns, Fates, whatever you called them, but still a goddess in my own right. Or as some would dispute a demoness, considering my particular sphere of attention. Through the pain and the howling multitudes I managed a light chuckle at the thought. Demon Goddess Elsa. Doesn't ring the same way as Ifurita does it?
My hands reach for the solid chair in front of me, my seat when I go and worship my particular religion of writing and reading stories. I turn it around with difficulty and crawl up slowly, ignoring the pain of my body re-arranging itself and compensating for the divine energy running through it. Fuck it. It hurts like the first time I got the job.
So I'm not exactly a god and not exactly a demon, so what am I? The closest thing that I've ever read that best describes me, is Stefen Gagne's Slayers Demiurge. I'm kind of like a Demiurge, only I get to have a whole lot more freedom at what I do. The Powers That Be point me in a general direction and I do the job. The mortal supplications and prayers are there for when I have any free time between the important assignments. Some of them give me a chance for general stress relief, ranging from slaughtering a gang of thugs in the most gruesome way possible to facing down a Great Old One. Heck, I had to face off with a Great Old One before I got this job. Some people even think _I'm_ a Great Old One, though my name is quite pronounceable and I have no visible tentacles.
"Oh, Mistress of Blades," the supplicating tone in the whispered voice was quite obvious. But this particular voice unlike the others in my head was coming from right in front of me. Pushing away the voices in my head, blocking them off, sealing them in a way a goddess can only do, I opened my eyes with effort. I could _feel_ my damned eyes glow momentarily as I saw the figure before me.
A Shade. A creature of shadows, this particular creature was an emissary from the Powers That Be, my superiors. Technically, it served me also. But majority rules and I'm currently in the minority here so they probably sent this pet to deliver my orders or jobs that needed my particular touch.
The Shade was pure shadow given life, the hooded cloak flapping in its own personal wind. Very visually impressive and very formidable if you were an inexperienced mortal, but I could probably crush it like a bug with all my seals broken.
"Oh, Lady of Pain," it addressed me once again. The problem with most Shades was the fact that they were always so damn formal. It probably won't be calling me by a normal name anytime soon, using only my titles to talk to me. I really hate these things.
"What is it, Bringer of News? What message comes from Above, Childe of Night?" I had reverted to English, my first language, as was natural when dealing with servants of the Powers. Not that they understood English, but it is the default language for my power to understand the various tongues of mortal and immortal alike.
"The Call has been blown for you, Bringer of Vengeance, Wielder of the Hallowed Guns." Whew, haven't heard that one in a long time. The Shade must have been in service for a long time. "Yet you do not answer. The Powers wish to know why you have not unleashed yourself once again."
Because I had tons of mundane work to do and fanfics and original stories to write. Now that would make the guys, gals or things upstairs and downstairs really pissed off. Heh. Better be diplomatic. "I live my mundane life well enough, Shadowborn. A good, normal, non-bloodshed filled existence. I am content to let the Call pass me by. The mortals can deal with it themselves, Rider of the Dark. They have shown enough skill in slaughtering themselves. They can deal their own vengeance. They can bring upon themselves their own end."
The Call was the proverbial tickle in the back of my head. It's been pesky for the past few weeks but I've learned enough meditative techniques to keep it out of my head. Besides, I am very ignoring things and persons that do not agree with me. Probably because if I don't ignore them, I'd probably kill them or destroy them utterly. And it is so much easier to destroy than fix things. Just make something new afterwards. I sighed. The Shade was not budging. Considering that he was here earlier, it must have noted my very _special_ collection of tomes in the locked room, along with other objects given in trust to me as the Family's default priestess and occult specialist. Semi-normal would be the best description of my life right now.
"Mother of Killers, you are part of a system. Your interference, along with the various other Powers and Principilaties, is important for the continued existence of the worlds, of the myriad dimensions of Reality and of the alternatives therein. You are needed, whether you like it or not."
"To kill once again, my dear little piece of shadow? To slaughter? To bring vengeance? Do not mistake that I tire of death, Servant of the Powers, and the bringing of it. I kind of savor it actually. It is that the Call comes at a time when I rather relax. Take it easy. Kick back and enjoy the sun bake the flesh off of my bones."
"You have had nearly a decade, Glaive Bearer, Scourge of Life."
"A decade to centuries of service. I was damn lucky that the Powers sent me to the moment after that damned book sent me on that little trip, Nightkin."
"There is no luck when the Powers are concerned, Goddess of Assassins."
"Do they still call me that?" Really, the Chinese can be so irritating. At least I'm not the Saint of Killers. Someone else already has that one.
"Yes, Lady of the Black Fan."
"Anyway, I wish for rest, Darkspawn. Is that too much to ask?"
"The Powers are not to be denied, Teacher of the Way. Besides, was it not you who said that there was nothing quite relaxing than justice dispensed with sword? Vengeance dealt by the gun and fist? Of slaughter and the ending of life?"
"Interesting that someone remembers that aspect of myself." My surprise was quite genuine. No god or goddess with non-capital G is omniscient. I had thought everyone had forgotten the more gentler aspect of my office. And that part about my quote was quite heartwarming. Told that to a Thor when I participated in a Ragnarok. And damn, didn't the place burn afterwards. They didn't call me Surtr for nothing. I'm starting to get really tempted.
"It is no coincidence that I call you by that title, Guide of the Path."
"Buttering me up I see," I dryly commented with a wry smile. Though one can never see a Shade's face, I thought I felt it smile with my senses as a goddess. So they were going to bring me in on _that_ capacity. Ideas spring in my head as I think of the possibilities. A little bargaining here and there and maybe I can get a pick of the order of assignments. The fun and games first before the tedious slaughter.
"It is because that is your next assignment, Dispenser of Secrets."
I smiled. Just as I suspected. Maybe I can agree to ride once more. Just this once. As if I would lose any time. Even if it took me centuries on other worlds, the Powers could send me to the very moment I left. I digested this idea and the incredible possibilities as the Shade waited for my decision.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The crystalline towers of the thirtieth century Tokyo glistened in the midday sun. The handsome man sipped at his glass of orange juice while he watched his dining companion, a red head read the report that he had given her.
"You're actually just letting her go?" The woman looked up with what would best be called as a look that combined fear and anger in equal amounts.
"Yes."
The redhead's face fell and her eyebrow twitched. "Do remember how many good people died the last time?"
"Yes. But you have to admit, a lot more of the bad guys died than the good guys."
"Collateral damage is collateral damage, damnit! She'll probably rip apart a few timelines before this is over."
"And probably create a myriad more."
The woman sighed. "I sometimes wish we had just used a copy of the Shijintenchishou instead of a Portal book."
The man chuckled. "She was a good prospect. And just throwing her into that universe would not have sufficed. Besides, throwing in a homicidal college senior who is also working as part-time as her Family's enforcer as Genbu no Miko would have been stupid. The mess that Yuuki and Hongo created was bad enough, adding a certified mistress of the combat arts, strategy and manipulation to the mix would have been ... quite interesting but also quite devastating to that universe."
The redhead shuddered at the thought. "But look at what we have created. She is a creature without a conscience, killing at the drop of a hat, incredibly powerful, mentally unbalanced and with a God complex to boot. And uncontrolled by us."
"You are mistaken on that one, my dear."
"Hm?"
"She has a Goddess complex, not a God one," the man replied with a smile. "Besides, being quite logical as she is, she does tend to ignore her conscience a lot. She _has_ been killing people from the age of ten, you know. And she does only kill those that she needs to kill. Besides the Powers would not let her run amok among the timelines. And she does their will quite well. Incidentally, Their will coincides with ours so we can pull off a few agents to reassign to the real trouble areas."
The woman sighed and read the report again. A strange look crossed her face as she reached the bottom of the page. Amusement warred with horror on her face as she looked at her companion.
"This is her new assignment?"
"Ayup. It will be quite interesting to see how that works out."
"You can say that again." The woman said with a smile and the couple laughed at the thought of how Elsa was going to get out of this one.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
You feel the driving rain on your skin, trying to blink away the raindrops mixed with blood as you watch your opponent. Breathing hard, you feel all your wounds, the ache of your muscles from the longest duel you've ever fought.
The slash on your thigh. The forehead slice that almost spilled your brains on the cold stone of the dark castle. Your pained biceps as you hold your swords in a ready stance that you yourself created: a rapier of the Elizabethan style in your right, point aimed at your opponent, the ancient katana that was forged by Masamune in your left, held level with your eyes. The stinging slash across your heaving breasts and the three other masterful strokes that had torn your blouse shirt were starting to bother you. The random thought that quite a few young men would have given a lot of money to see you in dressed in less goes through your mind. You ignore it.
The slice on your back when she had managed to get behind you started to itch. The various other cuts and slashes, along your arms, forearm, legs, a slice that almost ham stringed you were starting to heal. If it were another opponent they'd have healed up by now. But you were fighting a goddess, someone that could deal wounds to you that would not heal as quickly as they would have if you were hit by other mortals.
You yourself are a goddess in your own right. Mostly a goddess, to be honest about it. You had absorbed most parts of a godhead. The only piece left was kept by the goddess in front of you. Take her down and you can go home. Finally go home.
Your Family might be crazy nutcases, but they were family, and you loved them a lot. And you missed them along with your friends. And the mostly peaceful life that you led. The bitch is going to die and you are going to go home.
You had fought for three days, unleashing your most powerful attacks during the first two days. Ki blasts, ki strikes, spells, magic, divine energies were let loose. The devastated landscape around the castle were proof enough to that fact. Mountains leveled, forests burned, gigantic furrows plowed by powers that were not meant for mortals could be seen for miles around. The smoking remains of the other towers of the castle added more evidence to the amount of power that both you and your opponent had unleashed. Miraculously, the stone walkway that was dueling ground was still intact. You could feel the strength of the stones through your heavy leather boots, feel the energies divine that was running through them to keep them whole and cohesive.
Your ears are bombarded by the harsh pitter-patter of rain on the stones. You feel the tatters of your shirt move in the howling wind. You feel the tightness of your trousers, tight enough to hug the feminine curves of your legs and hip, but loose enough to give you the mobility for your attacks. You are panting hard, feeling all the aches and pains of your body, yet also in a strange way you do not feel them. For a day now, after exhausting both your reserves you and the your adversary attacked physically and using lower level techniques to try and finish this fight. For a day, you have suffered painful sword thrusts, stinging slashes, bone breaking kicks and body blows and for a day you have not fallen.
You watch your opponent, yards away, above the point of your rapier. She did not give you all these wounds without receiving her own. You can see the slight limp, the horrid gash along the side of her face, almost bisecting her eye, the bruise in her jaw from the rising crescent kick you gave her. You can see the glow in her eyes. She is a goddess. You are a mortal. But you were a mortal with half of her godhead. You were her equal and you needed to win.
Thunder crashed and alabaster white lightning whipped across the sky down to the ground. She took advantage of it and attacked, crossing the space between you in the blink of an eye. Your thin rapier somehow managed to deflect her long sword while you sent the Masamune for a thrust. A matching katana swept the attack away, her foot coming up in a blur hoping to catch your chin. A backward leap. The clanging of swords, katana to long sword, rapier to katana. The rasp of metal.
The sound of boots landing on stone. Rushing forward. Heavy breathing as you glare at her scarlet-gold eyes, her horribly beautiful face, majestic and terrible, framed by hair as black as your own and the cuts and bruise that you managed to land on her visage in the past three days.
Break. Turn. Parry. Riposte. A de otcho of the Spanish school met hidari-kesa-giri, while numero cinco was deflected by the Waving Fan. An elbow bends to deliver a pommel strike. Dancing backwards. Heavy breathing and the dripping of rain from wet hair, mixed with the blood of a goddess and mortal who sought to become a goddess.
A treize of the French met the Claws of the Tiger, while the Threading of the Needle was dodged and counteracted by a sentro. The Solar Explosion met the Immovable Oak while foot met thigh in a leg block for an axe kick. Whirling Dervish was countered by the Attack of the Wasps. Parry. Contrata. De Astarloa's unstoppable thrust was avoided by a swift bound to the left, counter attacking with suichyoku-giri and with Cat's Swipe. Only a hastily executed World Emraces All strike stops them. A swift turn to face the opponent and the Thousand Feints attack is executed. She ignores all the feints and finds the true attack. You break and then come again at each other. Slash. Parry. Thrust. Riposte. Feint. Slash. Thrust. A sword-breaking strike is dodged instead of blocked. Ekis from escrima. Redonda, twin strikes at the same place. Doblete, two strikes disguised as one slash. Crouch and foot sweep. Roll to avoid the descending heel of the axe kick. Rising upward in a double rising crescent with rapier and katana. Dodge. Slash. Masamune meets Masamune. Damascus steel meets Toledo steel. Once again you are face to face. You can see the slashes on her tattered tunic, the bleeding from her trousers. Her eyes glow as a scarlet-gold and you know your own glow, except they were glowing only scarlet. You both disengage, leaping away from each other, powered by both strong legs and powerful arm muscles, landing yards away.
You know you have not been wounded, but your wounds are starting to take their effect. Adrenaline can only do so much. Your black trousers and boots, your tattered white shirt that was now dyed with your red blood. Your mestiza-white skin, the product of being descended from Spanish, Chinese, British, Japanese bloodlines mixing with the proud Malayan blood of the Family, was dirtied by blood and dirt. Your eyes, once normal, now glowed a dark scarlet, almost black. You smile wryly at the thought, your face showing an emotion other than pain for the past three days.
Le blanc, le noir et le rouge. Favorite colors since childhood.
The white, the black and the red. You know that you and your opponent are both waiting for someone to make a mistake. A gap in the defenses. And you've beer trying to make each other make mistakes. But you finally figured out how to successfully do it. You both know each now, after three days of fighting, you know each other well enough to know a trap by the other.
But what if the trap was disguised as a mistake? Just a slight gap. A small hole. Small enough to be mistaken for fatigue or for desperation. I still had one thing going for me, you think to yourself as you straighten yourself and stand at cavalier, a stance taught to you by that old bastard Montignard. It looked like as if you were posing heroically for a statue hence the name. My greatest advantage of all, you think to yourself as you draw all the reserves of strength you have, is that she is a goddess. And that I am human.
You smile an evil smile, raise your rapier up to your face for a swordsman's salute: the flats of the blade facing you and your adversary. She understands, even through the driving rain. She goes into a relaxed stance, similar to your own. She knows this will be the last pass. Life or death will be decided in this one. You have gone many time to that place between life and death, the level where true masters and mistresses of the sword fight, where all is decided in a single moment and you've come back ten time more than that old dirty vagabond Musashi has. You prepare myself once again for that ride to hell's mouth and heaven's gate. You whisper the words your father taught you, when your rattan sticks were out and you two were to go at each other with body, mind and spirit, combined.
"In nomine patri, et filli, espiritu sancti..."
The words left your mouth barely a whisper, a latin oracion for arnisadors of the Family, for all who practice the art of escrima in the Family. It relaxes and gives strength, though the priest at the convent you were confined in when you were younger once told you it was total gibberish. Your grip on your katana was the way your sensei taught you, thumb and index finger holding lightly, neither lightly nor tightly by the middle finger and the ring and little fingers hold tightly, no slackness in the hand that holds the katana. The Masamune is held at your side, the arm relaxed, point downwards. The rapier in your hand is held in the Spanish style, a remnant of your arnis training. It is still in the swordsman's salute in the blind spot between your eyes.
Lighting and thunder roll and crash in the heavens once again and once again, you and the goddess meet in clang of blades and begin your final dance. You katana and rapier are blurs, a sight mirrored by your opponent's blades. Slash. Thrust. Slash. Deflect. Dodge. Parry. Riposte. Slash. Thrust. After the thrust you change your sword style from European to Oriental. Shaolin sword style met with Shaolin sword style. Then Japanese, Ganryu style mixed with Niten Ichiryu clashing with pure Niten Ichiryu. Then Kali style met the Mantis Sword. All styles having the mark of personal modification and sometimes even original creations.
After another near miss from your opponent, you put your plan into motion. Going into a style that you rarely used, you pressed the attack. The Style of Deadly Flower, as you called it, was a sword style creation of yours that you rarely used. Mostly because it made you look stupid. Beautiful graceful movements, which left large holes in your defense, and insane stances that were outwardly more visually appealing than deadly. For the earlier parts of this final attack, you had been pretending fatigue, intentionally slowing down, making almost fatal mistakes. This was the culmination of all the earlier acts.
For this performance you changed the style. The Deadly Flower, instead of leaving large holes was now leaving only a small one. A direct straight strike to the heart. Not just that. That gap in your defense alone would be too suspicious. No, it appeared and disappeared as you changed from stance to stance, from attack to attack. Your opponent was good. Very good. Soon she will notice the rhythm. Soon she will see the pattern. Then she will see the hole.
Then she will strike. Then you will strike after her attack.
The Rose Blooming was met by the Stone Wall. The Lotus Blossom clashed with Removing The Fly's Wings. Lily In The Field. Sunflower Follows The Sun. Fragrance Of Poppies. Bending of Daisies. All of them countered. You are pushing her, leaving her no chance to attack except for one, no other part to strike at except for a solitary spot. You see the glow in her eyes and you know she will break soon.
You see the exultation in her face, the look of victory that you have seen countless times on many a duel's victor, a sight that has been seen on your face also. And you know she is going to take the bait.
You screw all of your strength up and wait for the moment you set in your rhythm for the opening. Tulip Bursting gives her the opportunity and the katana goes in for a thrust, long sword sweeping backwards for the follow-up decapitation strike, the true killing blow.
You feel the point thrust in between your breasts, cut flesh, crack bone, lance through the heart.
You ignore the pain as a pain comes up from your chest. You force yourself to drop to your knees, look up at her surprised face. Then biting your lips as the pain reached up to engulf you, forcing yourself to stay conscious. Your powerful leg muscles pistoning up, forcing the katana to continue its journey through your heart, guiding it through one of your lungs with a sidewise turn, feeling it graze a rib and come through your back, until the tsuba is in the valley between your breasts.
Your katana does an obscure maneuver, Flicking Open The Fan, slicing the hand and forearm that held the katana that was embedded in your body and the long sword. The Elizabethan slashing rapier goes for an upwardly tilted atake numero cuatro from your style of escrima, slicing her neck so cleanly that the head only fell off when her body had dropped dead to the cold flagstones of the stone walkway between the devastated towers of the castle.
You are losing blood quickly and the katana still in your heart is rending the life giving muscle every time it pumped. The only reason you are still alive because of the godhead you had obtained. Forcing yourself to move, you feel the metallic tang of your blood in your mouth and knew you had moments to act. Gathering your remaining strength you reach for the goddess' head while your left hand plunged between her headless body's breasts. Cracking bone and tearing flesh with bare hands, your blurry vision soon avails you the sight of her heart and brain. Motes of scarlet and gold seem to spiral upwards from these two seats of power.
Only one last thing to do.
You open your mouth and put her heart to your mouth and start to chew.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I wake up in a cold sweat. Haven't had that dream in a long time. I look around and breath in and out the way my sensei taught me once, to attain focus. I look to the place in between my rather nice pair of breasts (it wasn't me who said that) to see the scar. Pulling the damn thing out was twice as painful than receiving it in the first place. I have a dozen other scars, but mostly because of vanity I kept them as mementos of war. The facial scars however I removed with the help of my power. Rather flippant but as my mother always used to tell me, a woman can have whatever body she wants, but the face must always be clear and smooth.
The room at the inn was quite comfortable, or as comfortable Tokugawa era Japan can give. I slept in the nude, discarding my white yukata for the fresh caress of the wind, though for most people it must be quite cold. Being a goddess does have its perks, you know.
I smile as I look over to my travelling clothes for this assignment, a red and white kimono and a black obi, a black folding fan with the kanji of death displayed prominently on the top leaf. There were other kanji and ideograms on it but they were within the fan itself. I sighed as I decided to go to sleep once again.
Lying back on my futon, I lightly caress my thighs, run up my smooth stomach, tracing most of my scars, thinking of my little mission here. All the people involved, especially the one they called the Hitokiri Battousai, were all known to me. I knew the anime and manga, of course, but still there were holes in the information that I remember from watching and reading the series. I will need to look for more information on the actors of this particular play and see what part I am to play.
I felt an almost electric rush as I touched the scar that ran diagonally from my left breast to the right, almost missing a nipple. Tomorrow I visit an old friend, or more like a servant, concerning my current assignment and maybe I can get a little satisfaction on the side.
I arch my back, stretch like a cat and close my eyes, trying to find rest behind closed eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hiko Seijuro the thirteenth was the reigning master of one of the deadliest sword arts known to man, the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu. His training has made him probably one of the most dangerous men on earth.
And Hiko Seijuro, was at the moment, very afraid.
He didn't show it, of course. Nothing changed from the arrogant visage on his face, but considering who he faced that mask of arrogance was inches away from breaking.
The woman had entered silently, without him feeling her. The sliding wooden door behind her was closed. She probably didn't use it. Woman?, Seijuro thought contemptuosly, this was no woman. She was a monster. He well remembered what this woman did all those years ago.
The woman that was object of Hiko's hidden fear did not look remarkable. She looked, for all respects and purposes, quite normal. Her jet-black hair cut short in a mannish style framed an attractive face with eyes that glinted strangely in candlelight, eyes that seemed to be both gaijin and Japanese at the same time, and a mouth that was tilted in a smile. Her skin was light, white enough to be a courtesan's. It was quite indeterminable whether this woman was a gaijin or a woman born of Japan.
Her red kimono with a white flower design managed to hug the figure beneath it. The black obi was tied in a simple manner, the knot in the back seemed to be a bit loose. The lady had a black fan, more like a tessen in design, and Hiko could see kanji and various other ideograms written in red ink that he couldn't recognize. He could see the words "Death", "Vengeance", "Blood", "Battle", "Blade" and various other warlike words. The red ink seemed to glint like blood in weak light of the candle. Hiko moved his eyes from the fan and looked at the face, a face that had not aged a day since he first saw it when he was a disciple under the twelfth Hiko Seijuro.
"So, Hiko-chan, how did you find out?" There was amusement in the woman's voice as she moved towards the small table and knelt as if she was going to attend a tea ceremony.
"I asked my master. And he told me of you, Lady of the Black Fan. That you visit every disciple and give them your blessing. As was the ancient agreement." Hiko was stiff when he mentioned this, remembering that night long ago, when he met this woman. "If you are looking for my disciple, I have none."
The smile on the lips of the woman widened dangerously. The only thing that Hiko could compare that smile to was a katana, bare and drawn, ready to draw blood. "There is no need to lie, Hiko-chan. I know of young Himura. He has offered many a sacrifice to me with blade, though unknowingly."
At the mention of his wayward disciple's name, Hiko's face hardened. "He is my student no more. And I do not regret that fact. The kid was an idiot from the beginning holding on to his ideals."
The Lady of the Black Fan clucked her tongue. She fanned herself with her fan, the red kanji on it seeming to glow. "You are sour at his abandonment of you, Hiko-chan. You love the child like a son. A son that you will never have."
Hiko stiffened once again and remembered the Lady's Blessing. She ignored him and continued. "I need information on young Himura. Tell me about him."
The tone of her voice brooked no refusal. Hiko could not refuse, the power in that voice that hinted at sake and blood. He talked and she listened. Of Himura and how he found the young boy. Of the years of training. Of the boy's faults and stupidity. And after severe coaxing, the boy's virtues and triumphs.
Everything. Every minute detail that he could remember he told the Lady of the Black Fan.
The candle was only a stump on the table when he had finished. It had been a stump on the table for so long that Hiko suspected his visitor of using her power to keep it alive. The Lady of the Black Fan was one who manipulated things in her favor, whether it was the weather, the people, or the world around her.
He had finished and he looked to the woman across the table. She seemed satisfied at what he had told her. She stood up and addressed him with an enigmatic smile on her lips.
"That was well-done, Hiko-chan. That is what I needed to hear."
"You will be leaving then?"
"No, not yet." The smile on her face was now a grin and a hungry light could be seen in her eyes.
She moved toward him. He could not move, paralyzed, by her power or his fear he did not know. He could see her right hand flick the fan closed and her left hand reaching for the knot at the back of her obi.
The piece of cloth fell and the kimono followed soon after. Hiko found out that she wasn't wearing anything underneath the hard way. His mind flashed back to that long ago night when he had first received her Blessing.
He had barely survived the ordeal.
She was now on his lap, removing the ever-present white cloak trimmed with red. The flame of the candle went out in a sudden gust of wind that came from nowhere.
"You have served me well, Hiko-chan." Hiko Seijuro could feel her hands slip into his gi and he could feel them awake something he thought long buried. Her lips were by his ear, the satin feel of them almost driving him mad. His hand started to come up and they felt the smooth skin and the silky hair.
"And you know as well as I do, Hiko-chan, that I reward those who serve me well."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I nuzzle against the thirteenth Hiko Seijuro's chest, feeling the hardness of them. I usually don't go for large manly muscles. I usually look for lithe bodies that are built more for running than weight-lifting. But once in awhile, I kind of like to feel the solidity of a very masculine chest. I looked up from my rather comfortable position and feel him breath normally. Asleep or very tired. I opt for asleep since I usually have that effect on men when my seals are totally broken.
I slip off of him and out of the futon that we somehow managed to end up in. The table, the floor, then the futon. I ran a hand through my hair as I arched my back to get all the kinks out.
"You are leaving again."
Hmmm...I change my opinion of the current master of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu as I call my clothes to me. "You are truly a master, Hiko-chan. Usually men are totally worn out when I give them my Blessing."
"If it is any consolation, I cannot move any of my limbs and it is taking all my power to speak. How many times?"
I stretch a bit more as my kimono slides up my body along with my obi. "Forty-five."
"Fort- Shouldn't it be dawn now?"
I chuckle at Hiko-chan's consternation. "I am the Lady of the Black Fan, Hiko Seijuro. I am one of the kami, a goddess, I slowed down the time we spent in this hovel of yours to a mere hour."
I heard Hiko-chan sigh. "You have spoiled me once again, my Lady."
I smile and shake my head. Masters of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu either ended up celibate or sex maniacs after I had given them my Blessing. The celibate ones believed that they could never find anyone to match my ...er... skills and were also a bit afraid of the sexual experience as a whole. The sex maniacs usually tried to duplicate the experience of my Blessing.
I usually only do this once with a master, but there have been exceptions like little Hiko-chan here. I remember him being a somewhat scrawny when I first gave him my Blessing. Almost killed him that time. So I wisely decided not to bring some of my toys this time. Probably have him turn into a babbling wreck in the middle of it when he sees them again.
"Will you be giving your Blessing to my ungrateful student?" Tiredness was creeping into Hiko-chan's voice. Any moment now and he'll quite probably pass out.
"I do not know, Hiko-chan. I will see. But before I go, another gift to you, Hiko Seijuro, my faithful servant. A prophecy. Your student will come back and you must teach him the Ougi of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu."
"Why? So that I may die?"
"No. Your land is on the brink of a new age and in that new age, enemies who seek to destroy your land will be many. He will have need of all that you and I can teach him. His destiny is to regain his innocence, to expiate his sins, to help keep this new age that he helped bring forth. And I will help him do that. Farewell, Hiko Seijuro. We will meet again when you have finally fallen to the Final Enemy."
I look to the futon for a response. Nothing but a snore.
Great.
Men always fall asleep when I talk like that. Come to think of it, women too.
I flick my fan open and smile. Mortals are so amusing.
Reality bends to my will as I walk the shadows to my inn. Time to bring the next phase of the plan into motion.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Shaku Arai was a sword smith. When you are a sword smith, you tend to meet very interesting individuals who wish for you to make them swords. His encounters with various people ranged from the mothers or fathers of honorable samurai to the most dangerous murdering madmen in the country, the hitokiri of the various factions. He had met men and women who were stone-cold killers, each with their own peculiar madness. Even the hitokiri of the Ishin Shishi, the Battousai, had his own mania. He was no stranger to blood and violence, to the coldness and dementia of master murderers.
But this woman before him was the strangest he had ever seen in a long time. A woman with hair as black as the coals in his furnace cut in the style of men, dressed in a kimono of red and white, the design of white flames on a blood scarlet background. An obi that was as black as its owner's hair tied at the back in an elegant yet simple manner. The white yukata peeked out on her neckline, emphasizing the feminine curve of her neck. A neck that Shaku noted as having an almost invisible scar or were those many scars not just one? The woman had insisted on anonymity and Shaku had agreed considering the times that they live in. Secrecy was sometimes necessary in dealing such as these.
A female hitokiri? A good guess, since her fan was a tessen, decorated with kanji that he could not puzzle out. Mostly because its wielder fanned herself with it. The red ink glinted faintly in the reddening light of the afternoon, making the kanji seem to be written in blood. It was obviously a formidable weapon but what would a female hitokiri wish from a sword maker. The women did not usually use katana, often they use long polearms, yari or even bow and arrow. As long as it had a longer reach than a sword, Shaku considered them as women's weapons.
Along with his services as a sword maker, Shaku Arai also occasionally acted as a polisher for swords. Polishing swords of killers and meeting the men that held these deadly masters of death, he had a feel for men like them. But this woman was different.
She was a killer. Shaku had no doubts about that now as he looked clearly into those eyes. Eyes of a wolf or a lethal predator. But what he could not understand was the warmth in those eyes. As if she was doing the world a favor by killing. There was also amusement and tenderness, along with a faint tinge of sadness that was mixed in with the two emotions, in those eyes, that Shaku Arai had the pleasure of seeing many times in his life. They were like his mother's eyes when he was young, guiding his steps, teaching him the lessons in life that his father had no time to teach him. He had also seen them on his wife's face when she was with his son. Strange.
A killer with a mother's eyes, sad yet happy. As if the bringing of death was a duty that had to be done and that it was more of a favor to the one you were killing. She could be a mother herself for all the old sword maker knew, killing people to be paid a few ryo to feed her children. But she looked too young for that.
"Shaku-san," the woman finally began, breaking the silence between them. "I would like to commission two swords."
Shaku sighed. More swords to make the streets scarlet with blood. All they ask for is swords, swords and swords. Swords that killed better than any other sword. He could not blame them. He was a master and you always go to the best if you want the best.
The woman was amused at the sigh. "Shaku-san, do you tire of making flawed swords?"
Shaku stiffened. His glare was pure outrage. Flawed swords? What was this woman talking about? "Woman, how dare yo-"
She raised her left hand to cut off his angry statement. "You do not understand the statement I see. Let me finish."
The sword smith sat back, trying to not make the rage that burned within to show on his face, yet he still trembled at what the woman accused him of doing. Flaws in his swords? Swords that he had worked his heart to create?
The insolent woman was not dismayed at angering the old man. She leisurely closed her fan and lay it by her side. Then she began.
"Shaku-san, do not be angered. All swords in the world are flawed, you see. So all you sword-makers are making flawed swords. Even all of the great Masamune's creations are flawed. Since the beginning it has been flawed."
Shaku Arai narrowed his eyes as he finally understood the woman's reason for calling his swords flawed. A flaw? In all swords? Since the beginning? Impossible. The look on his face told it all. The woman's smile was amused as he asked him the question.
"What do you think is the flaw?"
Shaku Arai was silent. He was calling upon all his skill. Where was the woman's alleged flaw? In the working? In the making? In the design? In the hilt? Or maybe in the blade?
A long moment as the red sunset dappled the room with its burgundy and gold light. The woman waited patiently, unmoving and keeping her smile as one of the greatest sword makers in Japan searched for a flaw in the swords he made. A few moments more and he shook his head.
"My Lady, I do not see this flaw you say. Tell it to me so I might know?"
The woman nodded. "What were swords first meant to do, Shaku-san?"
Shaku Arai recited the old saying he inherited from his master. "To protect the Emperor and the land, to fight and destroy the evils of the land and to enforce the will of the Emperor."
The woman shook her head in a sign of disagreement. She stopped and looked into the sword maker's eyes. "The sword was first meant to protect. That the strong may shield the weak. That justice may have a strong hand to protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is what the sword was first made for. Now, do you see the flaw."
The smith was even more confused. "I still do not understand. Enlighten me more please."
The woman made a slight tilting of her head. "The sword was meant to protect. But how can it protect when it also kills? What was originally meant for protection was now turned against its own purpose for the hand that wields the blade determines its use."
Shaku pondered on this statement and reflected on his swords. "But if this is true then all swords are flawed for all of them can kill."
The woman nodded gravely. "For a sword that protects must never kill."
"But the blade itself is the flaw. The cutting edge is what kills..." Shaku trailed off. Continuing his thought. The cutting edge...the cutting edge...then in a moment of clarity, an epiphany, that Shaku himself saw the true sword. The flawless sword as it was meant to be. It was a vision so clear in his mind that he could swear that the kami themselves had a hand in this thought. The beatific expression on his face must have revealed his thoughts to the woman across him.
"Exactly, Shaku Arai, the flawless sword. The sword that never kills, that can only protect."
"A sakabatou," Shaku whispered under his breath. "A sword with a reversed edge. It would be difficult but..."
"It is possible," the woman said, finishing his sentence for him. "I will commission two such swords. One for the Hitokiri Battousai, one for yourself as your final masterpiece. Your legacy to the world and your way to redeem yourself in your eyes."
"A sakabatou for Himura-san?!" Shaku's surprise was quite evident in his voice. "But-"
"On the day that you finish the first sakabatou wait for Himura on the road that lead out of Kyoto to the south. Bring the sakabatou and give it to him, for he will need it on journey."
Shaku considered this statement for a moment. He looked at the woman across the small table and asked a question.
"Is the young Himura your son, my lady? Or brother?"
The lady only arched an eyebrow and smiled. "Tell none of what happened in this meeting to anyone. I will pay for the swords with gold and a promise that your family will be taken care of while me and mine are still abroad."
Shaku smiled an inscrutable smile. "Will you not ask for a sakabatou for yourself?"
The smile of the woman became a mixture of sadness and amusement. She stood up and addressed the gray-haired smith before her.
"I do not protect, Shaku Arai. I kill. I bring vengeance. And at times I even teach and guide. I do not protect. I avenge."
With this final statement, the woman seemed to flow into one of the many shadows left by the light of the almost gone sun. And she was gone.
The very next day, Shaku Arai started to work on the flawless sword.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When it comes down to it, this entire mess I'm in is Rob Heinlein's fault. Yeah, him. The sci-fi guy. Starship Troopers. Time Enough For Love. Number Of The Beast. Stranger In A Strange Land. Yup. All of it his fault.
So the next time I see the idiot, a fair occurrence since I'm a goddess, I'm going to give him a good swift kick in the nuts.
I'm a bit harsh on the old fellow. The entire thing isn't all that bad. I can kill people. That's a big plus. Not just people, I can shatter worlds, scourge planets and all that. And that in my opinion Rob deserves at the very least a kiss for that. After that, I give him another kick in the place where the sun doesn't shine.
On general principle, of course. Any intelligent woman who's read Rob's works would give him a kick. Besides, Rob makes that really amusing sound when you crush his nuts with a military jackboot.
If I seem a bit sour, that is because I am. Try standing stark naked in the middle of the night by a cold pond about to do one of the most painful things you can ever experience. My clothes are piled at a nearby tree, along with some of the things I will be using for the next few years.
A little explanation is in order. I am not exactly a normal goddess. I was formerly human and mortal. I became a goddess via a rather unnatural means. Usually mortals who become gods or goddesses usually have to die first, recreating the soul of a mortal into a divine configuration. There are other means, like that little wish Chris Angel and Brett Handy made in their respective realities. That made Ygdrassil reconfigure them into divinities.
Me, I didn't have that option. I absorbed my predecessor's godhead via ingestion and other hard ways. I received the power but I wasn't reconfigured. So I technically have an incomplete divine configuration, which mean I am still part human. Nitpickers usually call me a demigod because of that, but no demigod could do some of my rather frightening accomplishments.
But to come back to why I was standing nude by a pond, because of my rather unique situation I have to do things the hard way. I was going to change into one of my disguises for this particular part of my assignment, a more motherly look than my current one. And I was going to feel a lot of pain and probably release a lot of blood.
Hell, delaying the inevitable is still delaying the inevitable. Sighing, I gather my power. Focus my will. Shape it into what I need to get done. I was going to age myself, considering how painful flesh shaping is for me aging my body would be far less painful way to disguise myself. I could do an illusion, but illusions have that percentage of breakdown that I don't like. Better make it as real as possible.
My power was focused and shaped. All it needed now was my release word. I chose this place because I knew I was going to scream, no matter what I tried. The shock on my body will probably be quite devastating. Though I will assuredly survive, I don't know in how much pain I will be afterwards. Well, here goes nothing. Luckily, unlike some gods my release words were always monosyllabic.
"Age."
I felt the divine energy ripple under my skin and course through my veins. I felt my eyes glow their usual dark scarlet. Then it hit me.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
My scream must have been audible for miles around. I felt two and a half decades of accumulated biological time crash into my body like an avalanche. My insides twisted and I vomited. Hormones that were supposed to be pumped into me over a period of twenty-five years were released in a matter of seconds. I felt all the aches and pains of growing old in a few moments. And probably the most irritating of all, two and a half decades of my monthly cycle came in a period that lasted for five brief seconds. Let's just say that I lost enough blood that would have probably filled a good-sized bucket. Torrent isn't the word I'd use to describe what happened.
And as suddenly as it began it stopped. I fell to my knees and crawled towards the water to clean myself. At least when I change back to my favorite age it won't be as painful. The reverse of the aging powers I used does the opposite. It is as delicious as this was painful. The sacrifices that one must make for one's work.
I inspected my body as I clean it of most of the blood and vomit. Most female members of my Family don't age well, but it seems I am an exception. My breasts sag a little, but that is to be expected. Wrinkles and laugh lines have appeared where I expected them. My hair was streaked with gray and was very long. I used a little of the power and a bladed hand to cut it off right under my shoulders. Damn, I hate it when my hairstyles are totally ruined by my powers. I could use my power to just return it to my mannish cut, but that wouldn't fit the image that I will have to give young Himura. On the overall, I look like a woman entering her fifties, aging gracefully like all women should, keeping my womanly figure to boot. Maybe I could sneak over to the Aoiya and get some nookie with Okina-chan. Hmm...I'll think about that later. Have more things to do right now.
I had saved a little of my blood from my little accumulated period. I used the blood to draw arcane characters on my forehead and in the middle of my breasts, focusing my power into them. Within moments my eyes glowed and the characters disappeared, absorbed into my skin. Temporary seals, enough to hold most of my powers out while easily breakable when truly necessary. I don't use my powers much anyway, except for stuff like this and the peripheral stuff, like enhanced speed, enhanced senses, magical affinity and ki access. I love the perks of this job. Another reason I don't use my powers is because they make me soft and I have always liked the mortal way of doing things.
I emerge form the pond and walk to my clothes. New clothes for a new identity. A proper looking black and white kimono in a stripe design with a red obi, along with decent underclothes. String to tie my hair into a bun. Proper underwear, nice and motherly. Nice wooden travelling slippers along with the white socks. And a red oak walking staff, worn smooth with use, four feet in length, as long as a regular katana. With a snick, I pull the hidden blade out. I nod in approval at the blade. Good and sharp, like I remember it. I most probably won't use the blade, but as always plan for contingencies.
As I finish dressing, I look up at the full moon. A few days from now, the events that lead to Himura Kenshin's long ten- year journey will come to a head. And he will leave Kyoto.
I will be waiting on the road.
I walk off. Sealing up most of my powers sealed away my ability to walk the shadows. And so I went back to Kyoto the hard way.
Okay. It wasn't exactly that hard. I cheated a little.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Himura Kenshin felt the scar as he sat at the roadside teashop. It was still a bit fresh. It had opened a few times in the past few days as he walked out of Kyoto, out of a city that held so many painful memories for him.
Shaku Arai was waiting for him when he left. How he knew he was going to use that road, how he knew that he had broken his sword and had walked out of his former life as a hitokiri, Kenshin didn't have time to ask. More like he was too surprised to ask. Shaku-san had gone away immediately, giving him no chance to overcome his shock.
Now, days later, he looked to the scabbard he held at his side. A sakabatou, a sword with a reverse edge. Shaku-san had a very strange though appropriate sense of humor. A sword that can never kill with a man that has vowed never to kill. With that thought, another question rose in the young man's mind. It takes months to craft a normal katana, more so a sakabatou. How did he know to craft that sword? How would Shaku-san know that these things would happen to him?
"Young man, your wound seems to be bleeding. Do you need help?" He heard a woman address him. He had been too deeply in thought to notice the woman's approach. He looked up.
It was a woman, with streaks of silver gray in her hair that had been tied up in a bun. Kind eyes that seemed to twinkle with amusement, though they had a coldness that he had only seen in the toughest hitokiri. A black and white kimono that hugged a figure that was still quite curvy, even for the woman's obvious age. A red obi wound around her and was tied in a complicated manner that held the kimono tight. In her left hand was a straw travelling hat, in the right and oaken walking staff smooth with years of obvious use. Something tickled at his memory at the sight the lady before her.
"Young man, you seem to be a bit stunned. I repeat. Do you need help?" The woman pulled out a cloth handkerchief and put it to his cheek. "If you keep on looking at me slack-jawed at me like that, young man, I'll help you whether you want it or not."
Kenshin stammered out a response. "I... I...I'm sorry. But for a moment, I thought I knew you."
The matronly lady gave him a smile. "You might know me at that. I have been travelling a long time and I have met many persons on my path. Watashi wa Kuroshiro Akai desu. Dozo yoroshiku." The woman said and bowed in the woman's manner, hands in front, left hand over right.
"Himura Kenshin desu. Dozo yoroshiku."
"Well, Himura-san, your eyes are troubled. May I sit with you and help you in your problems?"
"Um...of course, Kuroshiro-san."
The woman sat across him and they began their conversation. By the end of it several hours later, Himura Kenshin and Kuroshiro Akai were travelling companions, the young man not willing to let such a kindly old lady travel the roads of Japan alone, in these troubled times.
And that is how Himura Kenshin's tutelage under the woman known as Kuroshiro Akai began.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Next episode on Sensei:
Narrator: Elsa under the guise of Kuroshiro Akai has began the schooling of Himura Kenshin on how not to kill people. Though there are a few false starts.
ELSA(VO): Don't worry about anything, Himura-san. Castrating them is much better than killing them, eh?
Narrator: Also in the next episode, more sex with RK cast members!
ELSA(VO): Well, Aoshi-chan, Okina has requested me to teach you how to be a man! (seductive voice) Come over here, boy!
Narrator: Saitoh Hajime meets his psychotic mother-in-law!
ELSA(VO): Tokio, you got married and didn't invite me!?
Narrator: And find out what other crap Elsa had to do with the RK timeline!
ELSA(VO): They want me to WHAT!?
Narrator: All that and more in the next episode of Sensei!
(Elsa in a tight-fitting Chinese gown that has a slit right up to the hip. Black and white dragons twirling up a background of red is the design. She is wearing her wire-rim glasses as her eyes glow a dark scarlet. She smiled her razor-blade smile)
ELSA: Zettai Unmei Mokushiroku.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Afterword:
This is what happens if you get writer's block.
Weird thing happen. Like this fic. Technically this is not an
SI, since the Elsa starring in this fic is more like a quantum twin sister if anything else. My Family, though large and having branches
and connections from Canada to Hong Kong, is not into organized crime.
I hope. And though there are similarities between her life and mine,
I am more of a Jill of all trades than a civilization-crushing goddess.
This fic is more like a release of my darker energies and emotions, noting that the Elsa in the above fic is a total psychotic and is more like the part of me that wishes to kill every human being
on this planet for gross stupidity. Which I can probably do given time,
as an uncle once said that a member of our Family could probably do anything iven the time.
Anyway, hopefully after getting this out of the way, I can work
on finishing my comedic and nice, fluffy works about bi-sexual Harukas.
This fic has been waiting to be written for a year now, ever since I had the urge to go over to the NGE universe and teach Shinji
Ikari how to grow a spin, go to SM and teach English at Juuban, go to
Ranma and turn young Saotome into the homicidal killing machine we all
know was Takahashi's original vision (Go, Mike Loader, go! ^_^) and a
countless other stupidities of character that could be quite easily
solved if we just killed all the members of the cast.
And yes, I have been in a bad mood lately, so please wait awhile
for those who are expecting return mail from me.
Thank you and good night. I'm going out to collect some pig hearts for the Family sacrifice. ^_^
Elsa Bibat,
Homicidal Psychotic Goddess with Maternal Tendencies
With Love!!!! ^_^