How might things have gone if Saitou, rather than Kenshin, had beaten some sense into kenkaya Zanza and become his guiding force?
This story has no chapters, but is posted in sections due to length.
Last updated on October 28, 2019
Only a policewoman would break up a good encounter because they were in ‘too public a place.’ True, early morning was progressing, and eventually the docks would be alive with busy men, but enough time remained before that inevitability for some in-depth fun there on the pier — or they could have gone to his apartment. But Tokio, instead, had ended the night’s entertainment by saying she needed to return to her own home; apparently she had to be working again after not too long. Zanza might have been more annoyed and frustrated at this if he hadn’t suspected he’d been using the circumstance in the first place as a respite from the thoughts that had occupied him for the previous several hours.
Although those thoughts were trickling back as he headed home, his primary consideration at the moment was how tired he felt. It seemed incredible how much he needed sleep; he’d been a very active person for most of his life, and yet was wearier right now than just about any time he could remember. The day had been unusually taxing, despite the fact he hadn’t actually fought Saitou and that Tokio had turned out to be a rather tame kisser.
“You taste like mint,” he murmured, withdrawing far enough from her lips after his third or fourth contact with them to make this observation.
“We keep some candies at the office,” she replied, somehow managing to give a sense of allure to this mundane phrase.
“But you smell…” He shifted his position and brought his nose and mouth close to her shining black hair to inhale the scent. “You smell more like cigarettes.”
Sardonically she chuckled. “Anyone who spends time with Hajime…”
Wondering idly what you had to do to be allowed to call that guy by his given name, he replied in probably the most charitable tone he’d used when speaking of Saitou, “Yeah, I bet!”
“I kissed him once, you know.” He thought she said it a little wistfully, and, remembering her comment about Saitou being a hard man to love, he couldn’t help thinking maybe she would have liked to love him — and feeling a touch of the same discomfort (jealousy?) he’d experienced the last time she’d brought this up. She certainly sounded wistful when she added, “Just the once.”
With that discomfort or jealousy hovering — it was a little like hearing a new lover talk about her ex — he almost didn’t want to ask, but he was curious. Then he had to decide how to word his question, since ‘Why?’ seemed potentially insulting. Finally he went with, “What was the situation?”
She looked as if she knew exactly why it had taken him a moment to formulate the query, but her smirk at his unease contained also the same wistfulness as her previous tone, and she answered straightforwardly enough. “We were in Okayama spying on some smugglers we’d been following for weeks. The meeting we were listening in on broke up earlier than we’d expected — not through any fault of ours! — and there was no way we could avoid being seen by the men leaving the building…”
“Oh, I see where this is going,” Zanza grinned.
She returned the expression, though hers was still a little wan. “Yes, the place we were standing… there were only a few reasons a man and a woman might be there. We took advantage of one of them.”
“Did it work?”
“The smugglers were spooked, and in a hurry to get out of the area, but one of them gave us a dirty laugh as he passed, so obviously they weren’t suspicious of us.” She sighed. “It probably helped that I was a woman. For all I’d rather be taken seriously by the men around me, there are certain… I’ll call them ‘consolation prize advantages’ …to not being taken seriously.”
Having nothing to contribute on the topic of a female spy and what advantages or disadvantages she might have, Zanza said, “But you probably caught ’em eventually, and paid that guy back for laughing, right?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, he probably doesn’t laugh much these days.”
Zanza gave a dark laugh himself.
“The best part, though, was the look Hajime gave me when we both realized what we needed to do: a very grim look, as if this was our last resort and he deeply regretted it already.”
“He’s such an asshole. Why was that the best part?”
“Because I’ve been able to tease him about it ever since! Though the kiss itself wasn’t too bad either.”
“Really? Sounds like kissing an ashtray to me.”
“It was. But if you can allow for the kissing of an ashtray not being a bad experience…”
For some reason this exchange, the longest they’d had during their makeout session, interested Zanza significantly in retrospect. It made him chuckle a little as he walked, and also wonder what a smoker of cigarettes would taste like. He tried to picture the scene described — the harsh-faced Saitou and the beautiful Tokio in plain clothes tucked into a corner somewhere determinedly kissing each other to avoid looking like exactly what they were — but whether because she hadn’t given him much detail or for some other reason, he couldn’t get the image to come out right in his head. Maybe he was just so into Tokio already that the idea of her kissing someone else seemed wrong.
But thoughts of Tokio moved abruptly into the background as he entered his apartment and found he had a guest. “Oh, hey, Katsu,” he greeted, not particularly disturbed that his friend had let himself in.
“Good morning, Sano.” And it still was awfully early morning.
“How long have you been here?” Zanza yawned as he said it.
“Only an hour or so. How did your fight go?”
Zanza gave a somewhat startled look to where the artist sat beside the tea stove. “How did you know about that?”
Katsu, watching with shadowy eyes as Zanza settled onto his futon, gave a slight shrug. “Word gets around.”
Without any particular conceit, Zanza supposed this was true enough where a well known mercenary was concerned. He’d probably better keep that in mind if he did end up working on whatever Tokio thought he might be useful for. For now he answered Katsu’s question. “Well, the fight didn’t really end up happening. There was this lady in trouble, so we stopped to help, and then he had to go to the police station to deal with it, and I was kinda upset about it, so I ran off, and now I’m back here finally.”
Katsu nodded slowly, and just a shade of darkness lifted from his eyes. “I was worried about you,” he admitted in that solemn tone of his. “After your description of your previous fight with Saitou, I talked to a few people about him, and I was afraid he might actually kill you this time.”
By now Zanza was seriously starting to wonder just what ‘few people’ Katsu had been talking to, how exactly ‘word got around.’ For even the beginnings of a satisfying set of facts about Saitou Hajime, he had been forced to track down a number of sources, several of which had turned out dead ends, over the course of about two weeks. And here Katsu claimed to be far better informed after only a couple of days. This he would also have to keep in mind; if Katsu was that well connected, it might be useful in the future.
“Nah, Saitou didn’t even want to kill me. I think. Turns out he’s… not as bad as I thought.”
With a frown, Katsu said nothing.
Zanza wasn’t sure he should get into details about everything he’d been contemplating tonight. He’d discussed the matter with Tokio, yes, but she had already been involved and knew the situation that had prompted that contemplation; Katsu, for all he was the kenkaya’s oldest friend, remained an outsider to this affair. Zanza would like to talk it over with him, to have the perspective of someone more familiar with the events that had led to his previous way of life, but not just yet. Let his emotions straighten out first. But he did, oddly enough, want to set the record straight regarding Saitou. So he said, “I’m serious. He and his partner — that hot policewoman you met the other night — are spies who watch out for corruption in the government.”
“The rumor was true, then, that Saitou was responsible for taking down the Yuuju ring and its leader?”
A little uncomfortably Zanza said, “Yeah, that’s the kind of shit he does.” But there probably shouldn’t be a rumor; was Katsu really that deep in gossip about government dealings, or was the impression Zanza had gotten of Saitou’s skills as a spy exaggerated? This time he decided to ask. “But how the hell do you know that? He only told me some of the stuff he does because he was trying to make a point.”
“I have many friends.” Contradictorily, depressingly, the word ‘friends’ sounded awkward and out of place coming from Katsu.
Not wanting to press the issue, however, Zanza took the statement for the dismissal of the subtopic it seemed intended as. “Well, don’t worry about Saitou. He’s a good guy. A complete jerk, but a good person.”
Katsu shook his head. After a moment of silence he remarked quietly, “A good, strong man. A man dedicated to the downfall of major criminals. A man who fought against the current powers during the Bakumatsu.”
“Uh-huh,” Zanza said when Katsu didn’t follow up with any conclusive remark.
“I wonder…” Katsu frowned. “I wonder he isn’t fighting against the government openly rather than just treating the symptoms of this Meiji disease.”
Zanza yawned again before answering. “He knows the government’s got problems. He told me so himself. He’s just decided to work inside the system we have and do the best he can.”
“And I wonder why, when he could be working against the system we have.”
“There’s only so much one person can do. Even that Saitou probably couldn’t put much of a dent in this government.”
“On the contrary.” Katsu leaned forward slightly, fixing Zanza with an intense gaze. “It doesn’t take a large group to make a great difference in any system. With the right tools, even one man could cause enough damage to the Meiji to bring chaos, and start a new revolution with his example.”
Zanza had nothing to say in reply to this. Not only was he growing more tired by the minute, and increasingly unwilling to entertain these serious subjects, this talk of revolution made him a little uneasy — not least because he didn’t doubt Katsu was correct.
“Sanosuke,” Katsu said suddenly, startling the kenkaya. Except for Saitou, who’d also said it once, Katsu was the only person to call him by his proper name for years and years. It was like an electric shock every time. “What would Sagara-taichou think of these times?”
“I don’t know that he’d like ’em much,” Zanza answered slowly, perhaps a little worried by the fervor in Katsu’s tone. “Not a lot he was fighting for actually happened.”
“And don’t you believe, if he were here now, he would still be doing whatever he could to reach those goals?”
Tokio’s words echoed in his head: “He would have kept fighting. Even if it might not have been a physical battle anymore. Real heroes, you know…”
“I know he would.” Zanza’s reply was immediate and definite, though it was almost more for himself than in answer to Katsu’s question.
The artist evidently approved, if his sharp nod meant anything. Zanza seemed to have passed some sort of test, proven himself somehow, and as silent moments dragged on he was less and less sure he liked that. He had lain down on the futon in order to avoid Katsu’s earlier gaze, but now drew himself back up into a sitting position as he worked through things in his mind. Finally he said, “What do you mean, ‘with the right tools?’ And how much chaos are you thinking, exactly?” For he’d gradually come to realize that this wasn’t mere talk.
“If any vital government function were brought to a halt, that would be chaos enough.” Katsu did not, Zanza noted, address the ‘tools’ question at this time. “The key is to show the common people what can be accomplished if we stand up against the government. Once that was demonstrated, things would move from there.”
Zanza nodded slowly. So when Katsu said ‘revolution,’ he meant it. It made a certain kind of sense. And given what Zanza had come to know of this adult version of his old friend, he couldn’t even say he was surprised. He noticed, though, that Katsu chose his words carefully, giving no specifics about whatever he might be planning. Just as Zanza wasn’t quite ready to share the somewhat painful personal metamorphosis he’d been revolving in his head these past several hours, Katsu obviously wasn’t ready to share the entirety of his subversive thoughts and machinations with Zanza quite yet.
But Zanza found himself unwilling to leave the artist to it, leave him alone with his revolutionary ideas, let him walk out of here without some show of support. For one thing, he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t be on board. It seemed he’d had two different options presented to him in rapid succession just when he’d been thinking he wanted to make a difference in the world — one by Saitou and Tokio, one by Katsu, neither clearly delineated at the moment but each representing a highly divergent path from the other. The question of whether to work within the system or against it was a momentous one, and one he didn’t think he could tackle right now. And he didn’t want Katsu’s option withdrawn from him because he was too indecisive to give an impression of willingness.
So finally he said cautiously, “I’ve been thinking — Saitou made me think — I could be doing more with my life than this fighting-for-money shit. I could maybe be accomplishing something somewhere. I think that’s more what Taichou would’ve wanted than me being a mercenary.” He shrugged slightly, as if this thought were less complete than it really was, then yawned again.
Katsu eyed him searchingly, but his gaze seemed to soften a trifle at the yawn. “You look exhausted.”
“Like I said, thinking.” Belatedly Zanza realized he’d crafted an insult for himself without meaning to, and chuckled wearily. “I mean I was out all night thinking.”
Though he smiled faintly at the inadvertent self-deprecation, Katsu paused before speaking, as if considering continuing the conversation in the direction it had been going before. But finally he said, “I should let you get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” Zanza agreed, lying down again. “I need it. But I’ll come see you tomorrow, all right? In the evening? With sake?”
There was another moment of apparent hesitation before Katsu answered, “All right.” And though he didn’t sound entirely enthusiastic, at least he didn’t decline the offer either. He was probably as indecisive as Zanza was about all of this. After a quiet goodbye, he slipped away into the paling darkness.
What a night, Zanza reflected as he tossed his gi aside and started to arrange his blanket. His life was suddenly upside-down, and parts of the upside-down had been turned again so everything was set at odd angles, none of which matched. Just a few hours earlier he’d been wondering how he could attain his goal of doing something worthwhile — that goal itself a brand-new and startling development he hadn’t yet entirely assimilated — and now he was spoiled for choice. It left his head spinning.
Within or against? Alongside new acquaintances that had demonstrated competence in weeding corruption from the government, or an old friend that seemed to long for the destruction of that same government? He knew only one thing for certain: no matter what Tokio wanted him for, or what exactly Katsu was planning, he couldn’t have it both ways. He could assist the police, or he could go revolutionary; he couldn’t combine the two. And it seemed he must decide which he would prefer before this evening.
It might prove a struggle to continue disregarding this little voice in the back of his head that insisted it would be so much easier to forget about that decision and his new resolve and just go back to kicking ass indiscriminately and seeking oblivion.
Because it would be so much easier.
He desperately needed sleep. His unprecedented exhaustion threatened to swallow him at any moment, and he couldn’t keep thinking about this. In the face of all this nonsense — it wasn’t really nonsense, but it sure as hell felt like it right now — a good long rest was going to be very welcome.
The look on Tokio’s face when she finally found her way into the station late the next morning was enough to give Saitou an instant headache. Why she smiled so broadly, why her eyes sparkled so brightly above the shadows indicating just how little sleep she’d had, why there was such a spring in her step after so little sleep, he really didn’t want to know… but was sure to find out. Even had he not required an account of the night’s dealings, even had those dealings been solely personal and unrelated to business, she would still have told him about it. They were friends, for all ‘unwitting rivals’ might have been a better description at the moment, and they shared things with each other. He would hear about this whether he liked it or not. And he couldn’t even berate her for wandering in far closer to lunchtime than his dawn arrival, since she was scheduled for an afternoon patrol.
“Good morning!” she hailed him in a much too spirited tone as she entered his office.
“So there you are,” was his only greeting in return.
Unfazed, and in fact evidently not paying very close attention, she leaned toward the door she hadn’t pulled completely shut as she’d entered, eavesdropping through the crack. The sounds that filtered down the short hallway leading to Saitou’s office were only the usual station bustle, but the grin tightening Tokio’s profile indicated there must be something out there of interest. Saitou didn’t particularly care to know what it was, but this too he would hear whether he liked it or not. As she closed the final half inch that remained to be listened through and turned to face her husband, she remarked cheerfully, “They’re all making wild guesses about my mood. ‘Looks like the man-woman got laid last night,’ Hino-kun just said.” And she chuckled.
“Is that a ‘wild guess?'” This response was far milder than the one Saitou might have made and had, indeed, originally had in mind. Though Tokio was currently too sanguine to comment on it aloud, yet an edge of bitterness to her smile and laugh was all her husband required to recognize her stifled unhappiness with her work situation, with the disrespect so consistently shown her by her fellows. At such moments, he felt it no imposition to ease off the harshness and sarcasm a bit.
“Not so terribly wild, no.” The bitter edge blunted somewhat as she focused on something more pleasant. “It was really only kissing, but…” But things were obviously heading in the direction of Hino-kun’s inappropriate and unkindly worded suggestion. She came to lean a hand on the end of the desk, crossing one ankle over the other in a jaunty pose almost more indicative than anything else of her chipper frame of mind. But her eyes were calculating as she looked into his face. “You’re annoyed, aren’t you? Can’t let a lady have any fun?”
He was annoyed. But it wasn’t only his frustrated curiosity at what it would be like to kiss Zanza, his wish that he could be the one to show up here at 11:15 with a spring in his step after ‘having fun’ until early morning. It was also the irritating awareness that, though he could head out into the main room of the station and use certain pointed looks and statements to strike fear into the hearts of those that insulted his wife, it would be a treatment of symptoms only; he could not forcibly share the respect and esteem he felt for Tokio with anyone else, nor better her situation by intimidating those around her into merely being more cautious about how openly they displayed their ignorant disdain. But his impotent desires on both counts could not easily be expressed to her, so by saying nothing he allowed her to think he was simply a hard-nosed taskmaster that didn’t approve of kissing on the job.
Her expression turned wry, though there was a hint of defiance to it as well. “Well, don’t you worry… I wasn’t so busy enjoying myself that I didn’t get what we need. And I think the kissing even helped.”
“Two birds with one stone?” When she just grinned unrepentantly he added, “So you think he’ll be willing to work with us?”
“I’m almost certain of it.” She sobered a trifle. “You really shook him with whatever you said to him yesterday. He’s determined to change his life and do something useful, and when I told him there was something he might be able to help us out with, he grasped at the idea as if I’d thrown him a lifeline. I didn’t give him any details — left him very curious — but unless he has some specific objection I can’t predict to the actual work we want him for…”
Saitou was conscious of a certain amount of relief at this news. No matter what conclusions he’d come to about Zanza’s level of moral intelligence, those conclusions yet remained little more than educated guesses; he didn’t really know Zanza that well. There had always been the lingering possibility — and a cold awareness thereof under everything else — that the kenkaya was either too mired in his mindlessly violent ways or too much of a stupid thug to live in any other manner. That he’d confirmed Saitou’s educated guesses in taking the officer’s words to heart and resolving on a more upstanding future not only vindicated Saitou in his beliefs, but also strengthened his confidence and interest in Zanza.
“Good,” he said with a nod. “We’ll need to take the next step as soon as possible.”
“I told him I needed to talk things over with you before I could give him ‘classified information.’ I thought it would be best if we approached him together with the details.”
“Yes, if you’re there too, he may not mind me so much.”
No offer of consolation, only amusement, showed in her smile; she obviously recognized that his dryness of tone referred to Zanza’s disliking of him, but not the bitterness the thought of that disliking provoked. “He doesn’t hate you nearly as much as he did, now he knows you’re not a shameless turncoat.”
While this was somewhat comforting, it came from altogether the wrong person. Saitou was starting to want her out of this office, and not even so much because he had other work to do. “I have people to talk to today,” he said as he began to file the paperwork he’d been perusing and amending prior to her arrival. “We’ll go find Zanza tonight.”
She nodded, standing straight as if in preparation to leave the room alongside him when he went. “Anything on that woman’s identity yet?”
“Nothing,” he replied grimly. “But if the quality of her clothing was any indication of her importance, I expect to hear something any time.”
Tokio nodded again. “One more thing before you go: I’m a little worried about that friend of Zanza’s — the artist.”
“The other Sekihoutai survivor?”
“That’s the one. He may be planning something. I listened in on him talking about it with Zanza last night — this morning, really — after Zanza thought I’d gone.”
“Planning what?” Saitou asked a little impatiently.
“He talked about ‘fighting against the government,’ ‘starting a new revolution,’ and ‘attacking vital government functions.’ What he didn’t mention was anything at all specific, anything he actually plans to do — if he even has any specific ideas, and isn’t just philosophizing.”
He observed her expression and demeanor of cautious concern. “But you think he does have specific ideas.”
She nodded. “That was my impression, but I don’t think he feels entirely secure confiding in Zanza yet. Zanza’s been pretty open with him about his involvement with me, and even what he’s learned about you, and Tsukioka doesn’t know how far he can trust him.”
“But he wants to trust him,” Saitou surmised, “or there wouldn’t have been any conversation on the topic for you to overhear.”
“I think so.” Tokio looked pensive, but her unusual cheer still lay insidiously underneath. “I think he wants to involve him, and it’s possible he won’t make any move until he knows for sure whether Zanza will agree with whatever he’s planning. Zanza was too worn out last night for them to discuss it very extensively — and I don’t know how much of this Zanza picked up on — but when they meet again tonight…”
“Any idea what time?”
She shrugged. “Zanza doesn’t seem to work much by clocks.”
Saitou didn’t express all his thoughts on the matter — his concern that one more conversation might be all it would take for Tsukioka to decide either to invite his old friend into his schemes or to carry them out on his own; the even more pressing worry that Zanza, if invited, might accept, probably putting himself irrevocably beyond any purpose Saitou wanted him for and possibly making him a criminal Saitou would be forced to deal with personally — but his tone was as serious as those unspoken thoughts as he said, “It would be very useful for us to know what they talk about tonight.”
“Another patrol made interesting,” she grinned. “Why we didn’t bring Zanza into our lives years ago…” He gave her a stern look, and in response she laughed aloud. “I promise I’m taking this seriously! I’ll see if I can’t manage to be outside Tsukioka’s apartment when Zanza’s inside it.”
Saitou gave a curt nod, after which they agreed to meet up when Tokio had finished this round of spying, discuss any new information thus obtained, and then (hopefully) go have their own conversation with the popular kenkaya. And once these arrangements were made — Tokio’s ‘one more thing’ having proven the meeting’s lengthiest segment — they left the station, ignoring the suspicious silence that took hold of the main room when they walked through it, and headed for their separate tasks.
Saitou was determined not to spend the entire day thinking about Zanza. He’d had plenty of that last night, had admitted today that much of it had been speculative in the first place, and didn’t need to entrench himself farther in his fascination and interest when it wasn’t impossible Zanza would be completely lost to him after not too long. He had work to do at any rate. And fortunately the headache induced by Tokio’s practically afterglowing demeanor was already dispelling in the pleasant weather. It was a warm, almost humid spring day; he had a feeling they were in for a hot, wet summer.
A proficient spy can always tell when someone is tailing him, and Saitou knew without conceit that he was a proficient spy, but the prickling feeling that grew on him as he went about his business was not that of eyes on him or ki directed toward him… and yet it was similar. Superstition formed very little part of how he looked at the world, and in fact he sneezed not once the entire day, but he could have sworn people all over town were talking about him behind his back the moment it turned on them. People all over town had no reason to be talking about him behind his back; even his true name and personal history, were they more widely known, though they might cause a stir in certain circles, could not possibly generate as much conversation as his tingling spine seemed to indicate was being carried out about him right now.
Disconcerting though this sensation was, because there could be no confirming it there was also nothing to be done about it, and he certainly wouldn’t let a bout of apparently unjustified paranoia dictate his actions. Had he felt someone was actually watching or following him, it would have been simple enough to lay a trap and, having determined their identity and intentions, deal with them appropriately… but this was different. Though he didn’t consider himself imaginative enough to have invented it wholly out of nothing, still he might be exaggerating what he legitimately sensed — someone he’d just talked to whispering to their neighbor about his hair, for example; it had happened before — and there really was no ‘them’ to be dealt with, appropriately or otherwise.
At least it didn’t drive him crazy as he knew it would have done Tokio. She was as proficient a spy as he was — in some ways, especially when it came to surveillance, even better — and such an ambiguous situation, where truth was difficult to sift from misleading impressions, was precisely the type she hated most. He half wished she were with him right now just so he could watch her squirm… though that desire probably arose in response to his continued and continually difficult-to-eradicate bitterness about her involvement with Zanza, and was definitely unworthy of him.
And Zanza — how would he react to this feeling of being talked about? Of course Zanza’s ability to behave with any degree of subtlety would have to be brought up before they set him an intelligence-gathering mission; he seemed like a very straightforward person in general. He might have no inkling of anything wrong in the first place… in which case it could be amusing to bring the matter to his attention and then see how he reacted not only to the idea of being quietly discussed but also the awareness that he hadn’t noticed it until now. Would he get angry? Try to fight someone? Precedent rather indicated he would.
Questioning people rendered the afternoon exceptionally tedious. Apart from the necessity of making certain irrelevant inquiries in order to muddy the trail he left, so that his efforts felt very diffuse, there was also, in this case, the unpleasant awareness growing throughout the day that those efforts were destined never to bear much fruit. Yes, he did get from those he spoke with about the Karashigumi (sometimes very indirectly) a sense of new direction and greater focus and ambition, which did seem to confirm that some fresh unknown power had been guiding the gang’s activities lately; but anything more specific or detailed than this proved impossible to obtain, resulting in a lot of very boring and seemingly pointless conversations. Whether he wore his polite face or his intimidating face, not one single encounter provided him with the least bit of interest.
He couldn’t help thinking it would have added greatly to the day’s entertainment value, probably without decreasing the number of useful facts acquired, to have Zanza question people — perhaps under the guise of casual gossip — and simply watch from a distance rather than taking part himself. Based on the kenkaya’s conversational maneuvering during their fight, Saitou believed the young man wouldn’t do too poorly on the questioning scene; at ingratiating politeness he might not be particularly skilled, but he certainly had a pleasant appearance and voice, and if necessary could undoubtedly be plenty intimidating to the average person. In any case he would, most likely, be fun to observe. Well, depending on how things went tonight, Saitou might have an opportunity to find out for sure.
Feeling he should wring every last drop of information (for a certain definition of that term) out of a day probably destined to be his last at this particular pursuit, he stopped at a soba stand as the sun went down rather than returning to the station just yet, planning a little more questioning once he’d finished supper. And as he ate, he stared down into his noodles with unusual attentiveness. None of the reports the police had on Zanza — all of which Saitou had, of course, carefully read — mentioned the kenkaya’s eating habits or preferences. Sake was referred to a couple of times, but never food, and Saitou wondered…
…why, after so firmly telling himself he was not going to think about Zanza all day, he’d done exactly that almost without even realizing it. Ridiculous infatuation, this; very distracting. He gave an exasperated sigh, returned his empty bowl, and moved to get back to work.
And he still couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone everywhere he went — soba stand attendant included — was discussing him with whoever happened to be around as soon as his back was turned.
Hajime’s timeliness and punctuality were constants that could be relied on, but he would have to return to the station to receive her message before he could act upon it, so it was anyone’s guess when those aforementioned virtues would actually come into play and put an end to Tokio’s impatience.
She had a particular talent for stifling this type of restlessness, and she was almost never bored; she simply had too much to do. But that typically applied to duties a little different than this, to long hours of surveillance aimed at the unearthing of specific information. At the moment she wasn’t after any particular knowledge, but, rather, waiting for action — keeping her eyes open for either Zanza to leave his apartment yet again or for her husband to show up. She thought in this instance she could be forgiven a little untoward impatience.
She and Hajime had worked together for long enough that he was able to slip into position beside her without either forewarning her or startling her with his arrival. She did, however, smile at his appearance, since now the night could really get started. “So there you are,” she threw back his greeting from earlier. And when he only made a sound of acknowledgment, she gave him an update instead of any description of her late boredom. With a gesture, “That longhouse there is his,” she said. “You can almost see the sign on the window from here, at least in better light.” Ruffian’s Row was not the type of area to boast an abundance of streetlamps, which was more convenient to their purposes than anything. “He’s in there right now — yes, sitting in the dark — probably trying to decide whether he wants to go look for Tsukioka again.”
“Then those two haven’t had their meeting yet.”
“Tsukioka hasn’t been home. Zanza’s been over there at least three times checking for him, but…”
“That kind of persistence,” Hajime remarked pensively, “may suggest Zanza has some idea of what Tsukioka is planning.”
Tokio agreed, “It may,” but couldn’t help adding somewhat reluctantly, “or it could just mean he has no idea what else to do with himself. He seemed pretty lost yesterday — all drive and no direction — and every time I’ve seen him today, it’s been about the same. He’s had a lot to think about but not a lot to do, so…”
“We’ll give him something to do. You think he’ll come out again?”
“If he does, it should be soon, based on how long he spent at home between his previous attempts. I don’t think he’s likely to fall asleep in there as early as this — not after how late he was out last night; I’m sure he slept until noon. He has sake in there, but I know he bought it to take to his friend’s; I don’t think he’ll drink it by himself.”
Hajime nodded and said, “We’ll wait here a little while longer, and if he doesn’t come out, we’ll go in.”
Tokio mimicked the nod. Knowing from experience how easy it was to eavesdrop on conversations held inside the shabby longhouse, she too would prefer to take the one they planned to some more propitious location. This neighborhood could undoubtedly supply any number of venues for a private discussion, and this time of night provided just the right level of darkness; all they needed now was for Zanza to emerge.
While they waited for that to happen, Tokio brought up what had been bothering her for the last several hours. “I felt like someone was… watching me today.” Her volume didn’t sink merely for the sake of remaining undetected, but also partook of her uncertainty. “Nothing definite… nothing I could pinpoint specifically… and in fact ‘watching’ isn’t even exactly the right word…”
He rendered further explanation unnecessary with, “I know the sensation. I’ve had it all day too.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No. Was anything unusual about your patrol?”
“I encountered nothing suspicious either. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open.”
“Oh, good!” she said in as bright a tone as subtlety would allow. “I was looking for something else to add to my list of things to watch for.”
He made a sardonic sound.
Just when she thought they were both growing too impatient with this waiting game and would certainly decide at any moment to enter the apartment, Zanza finally came out of it. Whatever indecision he’d been suffering inside, he set off now with no hesitation in the direction that would eventually take him to Tsukioka’s home. Relieved and looking forward to a lessening of her uncertain anticipation, Tokio, accompanied by her husband, immediately followed.
They’d almost reached an appropriate spot — where the street was wide enough that standing in its center would put them beyond the hearing of anyone at its edges, but the buildings on the east side were tall enough to cast halfway across it an all-concealing gloom — and in fact Tokio believed she heard Hajime drawing breath to make their trailing presence known to the kenkaya, when they both paused and drew instinctively back deeper into the shadows they’d been clinging to this entire time. Zanza didn’t notice the approaching figure nearly so soon; in fact, it required the man stepping from his own concealing shadows into the moonlight to alert the mercenary that he was making use of this same convenient place to instigate a private discussion. Lucky it was that he obviously didn’t have the same perceptive skills the other watchers did, and that they had so much experience remaining unseen.
“Zanza-kun, hisashiburi.” Even lurking in the darkness of a trashy neighborhood, the man appeared nothing but unremarkable — late twenties, plain-cut black hair, unassuming features, casual attire — except for the tattoo intermittently visible on his left arm that marked him as a member of the Furukawatai, a criminal organization whose Tokyo territory stretched into this part of town.
Zanza had been startled for only a moment; now his demeanor shifted into wary resignation. “Hey, Kanno. Figured you might show up around here eventually.”
The man Kanno smiled, and, though his hands rested unthreateningly in his pockets, Tokio thought there was something remarkably… acquisitive about his attitude. “We heard you–”
But Zanza cut him off with a sudden fierceness that startled probably everyone present besides himself. “That was a joke. You guys didn’t really think I meant that, did you? I never planned on coming back, no matter what happened.”
Recovering quickly, Kanno gave a thoughtful nod. “You have to admit, though, it made sense: you would strike out on your own, but if it didn’t work out, you’d come back to us.”
“Losing one fight doesn’t mean it ‘didn’t work out.'”
“But it is exactly what you referred to when you left: that you’d come back when you lost a fight.” Tokio got the impression this promise had been very much along the lines of, ‘when hell freezes over,’ and she thought Kanno knew it too. “Besides, we heard your sword was destroyed.”
“So?” Zanza wondered impatiently.
Kanno shrugged, and his next statement was made with an air of reluctantly pointing out unpalatable inevitabilities. “I just hope you’re still successful. We’re moving in this direction, you know… We’ve let you do your own thing, left you alone out of respect, but eventually, when we’re fully in control of this area…”
Zanza’s brows had risen. “You were always about merchandise, not shit like what I do.”
Regretfully Kanno shook his head. “We’re not going to be able to overlook you much longer. We’ve been branching out into services lately; ask Kotono-san about it if you run into her.”
The immediate transition in Zanza’s demeanor to one of discomfort and perhaps guilt would have been hard to miss even for someone less accustomed to studying body language than Tokio. And she had to admit that hearing a woman’s name brought up in connection with the gang-controlled ‘services’ being hinted at here made her ears prick. To Zanza, obviously far more familiar with the situation and the woman in question, it must be infinitely more significant. “Kotono-san…” he repeated in a low tone. It was the first time she’d heard him use an honorific for anyone’s name besides that of his long-dead captain.
“She misses you,” Kanno said simply. “You were always her favorite.”
“I know that.” Zanza sounded very uncomfortable.
Kanno took a step closer; Tokio guessed it was only the awareness of the strong organization at his back that kept him from being appropriately nervous about putting this kind of pressure on someone as dangerous as kenkaya Zanza. “You’re still one of us, you know. No matter how successful you are on your own, you’ll always be part of the family.”
“So, what,” Zanza demanded belligerently, though his discomposure obviously hadn’t eased, “you came out here to try to convince me to come back?”
“More or less,” Kanno shrugged, still with that noncommittal air. “We’d all like to see you back — I and the other advisors, and Tone-sama, and certainly Kotono-san.”
Tokio fully expected Zanza to give a firm if not explosive negative to this proposal he obviously hated the thought of, but to her surprise he hesitated. Evidently details she didn’t know had significant weight here. Finally he said, “I’ll think about it. Not gonna promise anything else.”
With the same deceptive affability he’d been displaying all along, as if he weren’t a manipulative yakuza dirtbag, Kanno nodded again. “I suppose I’ll accept that answer for now.”
“Yeah you will,” Zanza grumbled, and there was almost a threatening edge to the words.
Once more Kanno smiled. “I’ll see you around, then. Sometime soon.” And as he turned away, before Zanza could react to this maddening goodbye, he added, “And I’ll give your regards to Kotono-san.” This effectively silenced the kenkaya, and the other man disappeared into the darkness.
Zanza stared after him, standing completely still and frowning, for several seconds. Then he shook himself and looked around, as if recalling with some difficulty what his original errand had been. His unease still had not faded, and it seemed to supersede the passions that had been aroused by the previous conversation.
“So you actually walked away from full membership in a yakuza,” said Tokio. “Not just any yakuza–” throwing Hajime a significant look– “but the sworn rivals of the Karashigumi! I’m impressed!”
“‘Impressed’ wasn’t exactly the term I would have used,” Hajime replied dryly, “but it’s certainly unusual.”
Zanza, who had jumped and whirled at the first word, now glared into the shadows in a pretty accurate direction for Tokio and Hajime, though she didn’t think he saw them specifically. “Where the fuck are you? How long have you been there? Don’t fucking startle me like that!” Hajime let out a monosyllabic chuckle as he and Tokio stepped forward into dim visibility, and as a consequence Zanza was glaring specifically at him as soon as he could see either of them. “What the fuck are you guys even doing here?” His list of questions seemed more a response to his own combined discomfort and startlement than any attempt at getting actual information.
“No surprise they want someone like you back,” Tokio mused, looking in the direction Kanno had taken. “It’s a wonder they let you go in the first place. How on earth did you manage that?”
Zanza followed her gaze, though there was nothing to see; even had Kanno not been long gone, a cloud rolled across the moon at that moment and rendered the entire scene difficult to make out. “Only with Kotono-san’s help. She can always convince Tone to do things better than anyone else. She could see I was tired of yakuza life, and, like you probably just heard, I was always one of her favorites, so she helped me out.”
“She must have a lot of influence. Who is she, exactly?”
“I don’t know all the details, but she used to be a geisha.” Zanza’s voice was as dark as the night around them. “Tone pulled some kind of mi-uke bullshit that probably shouldn’t have applied to her in the first place, and now she’s his personal property. He treats her like shit, and any influence she has over him is mostly just because…” It interested Tokio that he trailed off here. He’d been willing, only a few days before, to question her about her sex life in blunt and vulgar terms; that he was unwilling to raise the topic at all in reference to this Kotono woman — especially when combined with that unexpected honorific — indicated better than anything else how concerned and frustrated he was. And she had to appreciate that. Though the tale was far more common of prostitutes, even geisha — the most independent of women — were never completely safe from the vagaries of men when situations went awry.
“Is that why you wanted out?” Hajime asked, tone neutral.
Visible once more in briefly returning moonlight, Zanza shot him a suspicious glance. “Well… when I first got in, I thought there’d be a lot of… partying. Lots of drinking and gambling, you know? And fighting, of course. And there was some fighting, but way the hell more sitting around looking intimidating while other people did the actual work. And it turned out — you probably heard what I was saying to Kanno just now — Furukawatai’s more the dealing-shit type of gang than the kind that runs a bunch of gambling halls.”
“So in the end,” Hajime summarized slowly, all neutrality fled, “you wanted to leave not because of the suffering around you, but because you were bored.”
Zanza’s response to Hajime’s disdain was a mien Tokio strongly associated with an angry flush of the face; such a fine color distinction, however, was not discernible in the current lighting. “Hey, I hated watching Kotono-san suffer — I mean, there was more than one reason — there’s all sorts of messed-up personal shit that goes down in an environment like that… But this was before… I wasn’t really thinking yet…”
Knowing Hajime would not be able to resist an opening like ‘I wasn’t really thinking yet,’ Tokio jumped in. “Did you try to take her with you when you went?” The answer seemed pathetically self-evident, but it was the first question that came to mind that might stave off an argument. And here she was using mentions of this Kotono to keep Zanza in check just as that Kanno guy had done. But she could sense the tension between her companions as if they were at either end of a taut rope hauling away without ever breaking a blistering eye contact, so something had to be done.
“I did talk to her about it.” It was the timbre of someone that felt he hadn’t done nearly enough, but didn’t know what more there had been to try. “She said things with Tone were more complicated than I knew, and I should just worry about myself.”
Tokio made a sad sound of understanding. Things were always more complicated than you knew in a situation like that… more complicated, and yet painfully simple underneath. In any case, it seemed nothing short of miraculous that the woman had been able to exert so much influence even on Zanza’s behalf; there undoubtedly hadn’t been influence enough in the world to save herself.
“Is this Tone Joji?” Hajime wondered.
“Yeah,” Zanza replied, still suspicious, “that sounds right.”
Now to Tokio Hajime said thoughtfully, “I’ve seen that name in connection with Rokumeikan. He’s acted in some advisory capacity to him in the past.”
“Is Rokumeikan playing them off each other, then?” she speculated. “That sounds…”
“Ill-advised?” Hajime finished for her, understating the matter. “More likely he’s making use of both organizations, each without the other’s knowledge. But we can’t know for sure at this point.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Tokio could barely make out the scowl on Zanza’s face, but she could easily hear it in his voice. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”
With a faint laugh she took pity on him, and explained concisely, “Rokumeikan Hatsuo of the Army Ministry is our current target, since he appears to be guilty of… well, a number of things. But he also seems to be supporting and funding his private desires and ambitions by means of the Karashigumi, whom you may be familiar with. We’d like to take out at least some of the gang at the same time we deal with Rokumeikan.”
“And that’s what you want me for.” Zanza’s scowl had turned to a contemplative frown.
“Exactly. You’ve probably seen from the inside how difficult it is for the police to confront yakuza openly; we need irreproachable reasons to make arrests. Someone in your position will have a much better chance at accomplishing what we need to get done.”
“All right.” Zanza nodded. “That makes sense.” Moonlight glinted faintly off his eyes as he shifted them to look at Hajime. “As long as you don’t beat me up, I’ll do what I can to help you guys.”
“And why would I do that?” was Hajime’s immediate reply. “As I recall, it was you who sought me out.”
“Well, I’m the one who’s wasting his Meiji era,” Zanza retorted almost primly; it seemed he hadn’t quite recovered from that comment yet, no matter what had been said since then to assuage the wound. “I would’ve thought–”
“Because everything you’ve thought about me so far has been so very accurate,” Hajime interrupted bitingly.
“The way you’ve been–”
This time it was Tokio’s turn to interrupt. She didn’t dare raise her voice in the current situation, so she compensated by making her tone particularly intense; the result was a rather odd-sounding statement that was nevertheless successful at procuring the attention of the two men: “We don’t know yet whether Rokumeikan is playing the Karashigumi and the Furukawatai against each other, but maybe you could, Zanza. If you were to quietly join each of them…”
Zanza seemed to tear himself away with some reluctance from his argument with Hajime, but he did, at least, sound invested in the conversation. “They do hate each other’s guts… If I played it right, I might be able to get them into a situation where they’d fight each other… Then you guys could jump in and make a bunch of arrests for brawling or whatever, and maybe that would be enough to take care of your politician problem…” He sounded doubtful, though.
“The Karashigumi are always looking for strong fighters,” Tokio said encouragingly, trying to sell him on the formulating plan. “And you’ve already got connections in the Furukawatai, even if you didn’t necessarily want to go back to them…”
“And the Karashigumi are a gambling-centric organization,” Hajime jabbed, “so there’s some fun in it for you.”
“Hey, shut up.” Zanza said this a little absently, though, as a new idea appeared to have struck him. “If I managed,” he began slowly, “to arrange things so Tone would be there… and he got arrested… I might be able to get Kotono-san out. Get her somewhere safe.”
Tokio was pleased and impressed that his thoughts had gone in this direction, and agreed that the freedom of a downtrodden woman would be an excellent secondary benefit to the proposed venture. “Sounds perfect. Hajime, what do you think?”
“It’s the Karashigumi oyabun, Eisatsu, and as many of his men as possible, that we’re most concerned with having an excuse to take into custody,” Hajime replied with unexpected sternness. “If we can manage that, I don’t care what you do with the Furukawatai.”
“Hey, just a minute ago you were acting like you blamed me for not caring enough about Kotono-san, and now suddenly–” And Zanza definitely had a point: it was strange for Hajime to act so indifferent all of a sudden. Even if he couldn’t tell perfectly well how much this woman’s fate meant to their new protégé, he must be aware what it would mean to his own wife.
But what he broke in with was, “Just don’t let your concern for her distract you from our primary goal.” And admittedly this too was a good point. “And don’t move too quickly. Don’t seem too eager. We don’t want the Karashigumi investigating you too closely.”
“I know how to deal with yakuza,” Zanza replied impatiently, with a slight and barely perceptible roll of eyes.
“You weren’t too bored to pick up a few things here and there?”
“I fucking told you, that was back before–”
“Keep your voice down,” admonished Hajime in a harsh murmur.
Zanza gave a guilty start and looked around. “Somebody watching us?” he asked much more quietly.
Tokio had mirrored his glance at their environs, and now answered just as softly, “Not necessarily. But we’ve both felt as if someone was… paying us a lot of attention today.”
“That’s weird,” Zanza muttered, frowning. “I kinda have too.”
“In your case,” said Hajime, his manner still inciting, “it was probably your Furukawatai friends.”
“They’re not my friends!”
“No, I suppose they were too boring for that.”
“Would you just drop that already?”
“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever met who got tired of organized crime not for moral reasons but because it just wasn’t interesting enough.”
“I fucking told you–”
Zanza was getting loud again, and this particular branch of the discussion was getting nothing accomplished. Tokio raised both arms, pointed a flat palm at each man, and said, “At least for tonight, can we please…”
They looked at her as if they’d forgotten she was there, and she laughed faintly. As she lowered her dictatorial hands, a silence fell but for the sudden rumbling of Zanza’s stomach.
“I was hoping Katsu would get me dinner,” the kenkaya mumbled, embarrassed, “but I never did run into him.” He looked up abruptly, and back and forth between the two of them again. “And that reminds me — I’m gonna get paid for this, right?”
“You won’t be supporting yourself by fighting anymore?” Hajime’s voice had returned to its earlier neutrality.
Zanza took a deep breath. “No,” he said, “I won’t.” And, firm as the words were, still they seemed difficult for him to speak. More easily he added, “Anyway I won’t have time if I’m going to be fucking around with two different yakuza and trying to set shit up.”
Beside her Hajime nodded sharply, but Tokio didn’t know if Zanza would recognize the approval in the gesture. In any case, it had always been the plan to offer the mercenary a wage for his services… but when Hajime then went on to mention what that wage was to be, Tokio had to fight a sudden slackness of jaw and constriction of brows. No independent operative made a salary like that; it was unheard of. She knew they were both overtasked; she knew the current case was important; but did they really want Zanza working with them that much? Or did Hajime have other uses in mind for the kenkaya that he hadn’t mentioned yet?
Something a little unusual was going on here. Hajime always seemed to be in a strange mood during and after encounters with Zanza, and now this… So, as the foolish young man, probably not recognizing the ridiculous deal he’d been offered, began attempting to haggle, good-naturedly at first, with her unusually animated and responsive husband, Tokio took care to observe them both more meticulously than she previously had, trying to figure out what on earth was brewing between them.
Katsu, appearing every bit as baleful as when Zanza had last seen him, answered the knock after several moments of interior shuffling and gestured his friend inside. He then re-seated himself where he was evidently working on an ink painting of some sort beside a bright lamp with a number of other drawings — references? — strewn about him. A jug of sake stood at the far end of the table, carefully corked even though it was already at a safe distance from Katsu’s work.
“Too bad I missed you last night,” Zanza remarked as he approached to look over his friend’s shoulder at his progress. Such art meant very little to him, so he moved back to help himself to the sake. “I was going to check again when it got later, but then I ran into Tokio.”
Though he didn’t look up, Katsu’s brush stilled for a moment above his dish of ink as he asked quietly, “What exactly is your relationship with her?”
The answer to that was more complicated than Katsu could know, and Zanza didn’t believe it wise yet to elaborate on the details. “Nothing official,” was the technical truth he decided on; even the strictly personal aspects of their relationship were not entirely simple at this juncture. “I’ve kissed her. Why?”
Katsu resumed the motion of arm by which he was applying long, elegant lines to the thick paper in front of him. “I was worried.”
“About what?” Zanza tried to allow nothing more than curiosity into his voice, tried not to indicate his sudden fear that Katsu might somehow already know about his arrangements with the two police officers — and what that might mean for their friendship and Katsu’s mysterious plans.
“I was worried you might be deceived about her and about Saitou.”
Zanza covered up his relief with a snort. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal.”
Now Katsu did raise his gaze, his expression as serious as ever. “I’m sorry,” he said soberly. “You were right.”
“I spent yesterday gathering information about them.”
“We’ve both felt as if someone was… paying us a lot of attention today.” Well, there was that mystery solved. Whether Zanza’s similar feeling had merely been, as Saitou had suggested, the Furukawatai keeping tabs on him, or some sympathetic paranoia invented in response to Tokio’s mention of the sensation, he didn’t know.
“I could see you believed it,” Katsu went on, “and I’d heard some things that made me inclined to believe it too… but I wanted to be sure this woman you’re getting yourself involved with, and her partner, are actually what they say they are.”
“You were that worried about me?” Zanza might have been flattered or touched, but he was afraid this had more to do with Katsu’s lack of trust in him than concern for his well-being.
“I’m satisfied now.” Katsu dodged the implicit questions about how much emotional attachment was expected in their renewed friendship and how much faith he placed in the kenkaya. “It seems everything Saitou told you about himself was true. They really are doing good work.”
If Zanza had entertained any doubts on this score, they would have been eased with last night’s conversation and the scheme he’d agreed to take part in, but he didn’t say so. He watched in silence as the artist dipped his brush into a ceramic dish of clean water, watched as the ink meandered out in a small fog around the bristles and dissipated. Katsu pressed the brush gently against the bottom of the bowl, and the water turned slowly murky around it. In a low tone, shaking his head slightly, he said, “I just can’t understand why they don’t do more.”
Zanza couldn’t stand it any longer. He had intended to allow Katsu to come to his point in his own good time, but he was so agitated by this discussion of Tokio and Saitou when he hadn’t yet spilled everything that was going on with them, he wanted to have a more aboveboard discussion about something. “All right. You’ve got ‘more‘ in mind, I can tell; you were talking about that the other night too. What are you planning?”
Blotting his brush on a cloth much stained by a history of this specific usage, for a moment Katsu neither said a word nor looked Zanza in the face. But finally, setting his implements aside, he met his friend’s gaze. And now, instead of the moroseness that had darkened his eyes ever since the moment they’d reunited, there was a sudden fire and intensity that startled the kenkaya into setting down the sake jug he’d just taken up again. And though Katsu said, “I’ll show you,” quietly enough, it was the quiet before a thunderclap.
Across the room Zanza followed Katsu, stopping with him before an unobtrusive closet. In such a cabinet one might expect to find clothing, linens, or even an adroitly rolled futon, but when at the soft slide of the door Zanza saw what it actually contained, his eyes widened in astonishment.
“Katsu, that’s… Are those…?”
“You remember how I always use to help Akinobu-san with the guns. I learned a lot about gunpowder back then, and I’ve taught myself more since. I can vary their explosive power, and how soon they’ll go off after I light them, and their weight and aerodynamics for different uses.” Katsu’s manner in relating these facts was almost morbidly casual, as if he were discussing artistic techniques rather than a hundred or so little round bombs, their fuses curved in places like devilish grins where they sat piled up in wooden trays like fruit at a market stall.
And all Zanza could think to say was, “Why?”
The light in Katsu’s eyes hadn’t dimmed; it was a wonder he didn’t inadvertently set off the explosives right then and there. He slid the closet door closed, however, with a gentle hand, and answered, “These are all I need to start a new revolution.”
“Katsu…” Zanza barely knew what to say as he trailed after his friend back to where they’d been seated before. “A closetful of bombs isn’t gonna destroy the government.”
“It doesn’t have to.” The same intensity that had marked Katsu’s words the last time they’d met was growing there again, but now, to match his expression, there was a new determination to his tone. “It merely has to provide a spark to start the fire… a beacon the people can follow.”
This was a little too philosophical for Zanza. “What are your exact plans?” he demanded.
And Katsu too became direct. “I’m going to destroy the offices of Internal Affairs. After that, if I can manage it, the military offices and the Bureau of Finance. It will damage government operations, but more importantly, it will act as a sign to the people. The Meiji government was brought to its knees by the Seinan War, and after this it will never rise again.”
“You know,” said Zanza carefully, fighting off an urge toward sarcasm, “I kinda got the impression the Seinan War was a complete failure.”
“Only because Saigou-tachi were foolish enough to start things down where they were easily isolated and defeated. When a revolution starts in the heart of the nation, here in Tokyo, there won’t be anything the government can do about it. All the people need is an example, and–”
“All right, enough with the ‘example’ shit already; I get it.” And it made a sort of sense: as Katsu said, he didn’t actually need to cause significant damage, if he could count on the swelling after the sting to do the rest of his work for him. But some logistical questions still remained. “Do you really think you can manage this? Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
“If I time my explosions right, no.”
“And afterwards? If they come looking for you?”
“Why should they? Would you suspect an artist of such a thing, if you were with the police?”
Zanza struggled to keep from squirming. ‘If you were with the police’ wasn’t nearly as inconceivable as the tone of that statement seemed to imply, but evidently even the all-knowing Katsu wasn’t aware of this. He pressed on. “And… after afterwards? You’re pretty much talking about a new war here…”
“War is a machine of change that’s fueled by death. If I can get it running, my death afterwards won’t make a difference.”
This was all very well, and probably true (if a little sententious), but Zanza wasn’t convinced he wanted to lose his friend so soon after having found him again. He couldn’t decide what to say, though.
Katsu didn’t allow him to say anything. “I was planning to do all this by myself,” he continued, immediately but slowly. “But then, just as I was finishing my preparations, I ran into you. And you said you were interested in making a change in your life, doing something that would make a difference. That timing is too perfect to be a coincidence.” He left unspoken the ensuing implication — that if not coincidence, it must have been orchestrated, presumably by someone with the power to do so and an interest in them both — but the idea hung in the air for a long, heavy moment. Finally Katsu turned abruptly toward Zanza, and the suddenness of his movement drew the mercenary’s gaze to meet the artist’s. “Well, Sano, will you help me?” The fervor in Katsu’s face was almost maniacal. “Shall we revive the Sekihoutai, you and I, and usher in a new era?”
It was a decisive question, but Zanza couldn’t give a decisive answer. As he had been early yesterday morning, he was inundated with a variety of thoughts on the subject, now without even the excuse of weariness to put off examining them.
Katsu was headed down a path of chaos and death, and had invoked the name of Zanza’s oldest organizational loyalty to request his assistance in a venture that might indeed be exactly what the country needed — a bold step and a possible martyrdom that not just anyone was willing to make. As one of the few survivors of the Sekihoutai, Zanza didn’t know if he could allow his comrade to do this alone. Yet as, essentially, an independent police operative — recent a development as that was — as an ally of Takagi Tokio and Saitou Hajime, he didn’t know if he could allow his comrade to do this at all.
He took a deep breath. “Like you said — like I told you before — I want to do something worthwhile with my life… something more like what Taichou would’ve wanted…” He tried to restrain himself from sucking in more air unnecessarily, from showing how nervous he was about throwing doubt on Katsu’s project and possibly risking a new rift between them. “I just don’t know if what you’ve got in mind is that kind of thing.” After all, as the artist had said, the two friends had reunited precisely as one’s preparations were nearing completion and the other’s attitude was transforming… but Katsu had reckoned that supposed non-coincidence without Saitou, and Zanza wasn’t sure that sequence of events must naturally result in the same future Katsu envisioned… even if Sagara-taichou had arranged it somehow from beyond the grave.
Katsu’s brow furrowed at Zanza’s words. “What Sagara-taichou always wanted was equality and freedom for the people of this nation. Do you think we’ve come anywhere close? Is this the Japan he died for?”
Zanza could give nothing but a bitter negative.
“He would have succeeded, if he’d lived,” Katsu said passionately. “Now it’s up to us, the people he left behind, to make his dream a reality. I’m going to create the Japan he fought for, and I’m going to do it any way I can. I’m going to start a new revolution, one in which you and I can truly fight at last — not as children, not as assistants, but as fully realized warriors with all our painful history behind us.” His eyes, bright and blue as a driftwood fire, burned into Zanza’s, and his inkstained hands clenched into fists. And Zanza felt it: the call of that new revolution, that opportunity to fight — to fight for the good of the people his captain had sought to raise up.
Of course, even if he didn’t die in attempting to bring it about, a new war would change everything, would mean giving up everything… but what did ‘everything’ consist of at this point? He had long since walked away from his family, and had no idea where they were these days, assuming they still lived; he’d never felt he belonged in the Furukawatai, and had left them at the earliest opportunity; and then he’d recently abandoned his only source of income, and, though he’d made arrangements for a new one, there were no guarantees. All he had were casual drinking buddies, a broken sword, and a dilapidated home he could just as easily turn his back on as not. That… and Tokio.
He didn’t exactly ‘have’ Tokio, but there were certain opportunities she represented that would be lost to him if he followed Katsu down this path. And Saitou — that man had, for reasons of his own, taken the trouble to speak the words Zanza needed to hear rather than responding to his violence in kind… Wouldn’t it be like throwing those words and that inscrutable generosity right back in his face if Zanza then chose to fight against the system Saitou had dedicated his life to improving? Yet Saitou had frankly admitted that system was flawed…
And if Zanza refused any part in this new, subversive undertaking, didn’t that mean giving up Katsu? And wasn’t his old friend, his old loyalty, worth more than these new acquaintances, even a potential lover and someone that had made such a monumental difference in his way of thinking? Especially when the new undertaking could mean so much good for the nation?
“And then, you know…” There was a subtle alteration to Katsu’s fervid tone, as he broke into Zanza’s thoughts, that the kenkaya didn’t entirely know how to read. “She would be freed…”
“Who?” Having just been thinking about Tokio, he recognized the foolishness of this question almost at once. “What do you mean?”
“Your policewoman friend. And that Saitou too, of course. When the revolution starts, they’ll be free to fight for what they truly believe rather than kept skulking in the shadows of a government they actually hate.”
It was an idea that had never occurred to Zanza. Did his new allies do what they did only because they were barred from the actions they would truly prefer to take? Next to Katsu’s explosively straightforward plan, machinations concerning politicians and yakuza bosses seemed petty and needlessly roundabout. But might not Zanza only think so because he was himself so much more straightforward and hadn’t ever previously considered anything like the type of spywork he’d agreed to last night? He wouldn’t be entirely surprised if Tokio and Saitou did wish they could take more direct action against the current regime — and if so, perhaps joining in the attack on the government offices wouldn’t mean giving up the prospects of the one and flouting the advice of the other… but at the same time, there had been nothing indecisive or discontented in “That’s how I’ve spent my Meiji era.”
It came back to the same question as before: was it more effective and creditable to work within the system against its minute evils, taking on corrupt influences a few at a time and slowly bettering the country as best they could, or to smash the system apart and rebuild it? Zanza didn’t know the answer.
“I see what you’re saying,” he said at last with painful honesty. Because he absolutely could see the potential in Katsu’s plan, and unquestionably sympathized with the motives behind it. The dilemma wasn’t, after all, whether it was a good plan, but whether it was the right plan. He stood, breaking eye contact with this friend, and started a quick, agitated pacing of the room. He couldn’t sit still, but the motion wasn’t helping him make this crucially important decision.
“Your strength will be invaluable in this new conflict.”
His strength… the thing he’d relied on for years to help him with his old hurt. What to do with that strength was the question here. And of course, in thinking of those years and that hurt, it occurred to him that he did have a third option: he could simply return to that life. Forget about Katsu’s grand-scale ideas, forget about Tokio and Saitou’s little yakuza drama… just walk out again onto the dirty streets, to fighting and fighting and fighting, the only thing he really knew how to do well, and forget everything.
It would be so easy. Definitely easier than making this agonizing, momentous decision.
But that too would be a decision, even if merely of omission by neglecting his other options. So he was still left with this choice, and he was running out of time. He turned toward Katsu suddenly, though only fixing his gaze on his friend’s knees, and asked, “When are you planning to start all this?”
“Tomorrow night.” Katsu certainly named the hour of his possible death, or the beginning of the new upheaval, calmly enough! “It’s a new moon, and the offices have fewer guards on Sundays.”
Zanza nodded sharply. His period of respite had not yet expired. “You’ll see me again before then,” he promised, and, still without meeting Katsu’s eyes, reached for the door.
The range of Tokio’s expectations concerning Tsukioka’s plans had been fairly wide, so what she’d now discovered them to be could not be considered outside the pale. But she was perhaps a little startled at the details. There had been no way to determine, just listening outside the door, exactly how much explosive power the artist had in there, but given the number of offices he’d mentioned intending to destroy, he had to be pretty well equipped. The scheme was crazy, but Tsukioka himself didn’t strike her as far enough out of his mind to embark upon it without the necessary tools.
At first she had planned to head quietly over to the police station once she was confident she’d heard everything useful she could, but as the conversation inside the apartment had become more intense — and especially as it had begun placing more specific demands on Zanza — she had reluctantly changed her mind. She needed to see his face and read his demeanor, needed more certainty than she could take from the mere sound of his voice and pacing footsteps… because, though the only promise he’d made his friend had been to get back in touch with him before the time of the attack, he’d sounded an awful lot as if he only had minor objections left to overcome and really would go along with the artist in the end. Tokio was more than a little concerned.
So now she waited a short distance down the street, out of the flow of traffic but in plain sight, in the direction she speculated Zanza would take. If he went the other way she would have to run after him, but she didn’t want to hang around, and possibly hold a conversation that might become angry and attention-grabbing, too close to the apartment when Tsukioka was still inside. And she’d barely assumed this position when he was, as anticipated, moving toward her; he had sounded as if he intended to leave immediately.
She’d guessed correctly about which way he would come, and now she had the distance between Tsukioka’s door and Zanza’s catching sight of her to glean what she could of his intentions from his candid expression and movements. Unfortunately, all she could make out was unhappiness and confusion. Though perhaps that wasn’t so unfortunate… Surely if he were resolute in supporting his friend, he wouldn’t exude nearly so much uncertainty.
When he observed her after not too long, possibly sensing and then seeking out her focused gaze, he immediately scowled and altered his path to come straight to her. “So you do spy on me,” was his surly greeting, as if confirming a long-standing suspicion. She thought he might not have sounded quite so annoyed, though, if he hadn’t been in some turmoil already.
“And a good thing, too!” she replied, throwing a significant glance at the artist’s door and folding her arms.
Mirroring her look behind him, he grumbled, “Vote of confidence from everyone today.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked him bluntly.
“I don’t know yet,” he answered with just as much frankness. And shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders, he continued on down the street.
As she followed, Tokio judged his statement to be honest and accurate, and this came as a relief: if he truly hadn’t made up his mind, perhaps she could help sway his decision. She fell into step beside him and said quietly, “You are aware it won’t work, I hope?”
“I dunno… he’s got some good points…” Zanza looked at her sidelong, perhaps a little bitterly and perhaps not — she got the feeling he was postponing determining how he felt about her eavesdropping until after the more important choice was made — and added, “You’re the spy; you heard ’em.”
“He’s counting on a people’s revolution,” Tokio said, just as quietly as before and glad they were walking fairly quickly; this wasn’t a subject she would like to have overheard (though she wouldn’t be able to deny it was her turn; all the more reason for caution). “But that isn’t what the people want right now. Even assuming he can pull this off without getting killed or arrested, the best he can hope for is some minor scattered uprisings in response. Remember Akizuki…”
Zanza’s frown had deepened. “But he’s not trying to restore the samurai class,” he protested. “That’s the last thing he’d want! People have gotta see that!”
Tokio shook her head. “I work with ‘people’ every single day. They’re busy trying to build new lives after a lot of chaos and misery. Another war is the last thing they want.”
Zanza stopped suddenly, straightened, and turned to look at her very seriously. “Maybe he’s right about you guys, though… You could be doing more, and you want to do more, but you’re trapped in this system and need a big shakeup to get out of it.”
“Don’t talk about what I could be doing or what I want as if you know better than I do.” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so pugnacious, but it always annoyed and provoked her when men condescended like that. Zanza himself was a little surprised, and drew back slightly at her tone. This latter she amended somewhat, so it only sounded disdainful rather than immediately threatening, as she went on. “Do you really think Hajime and I need rescuing? Do you really think there is some better way to improve the country, and we’re just not doing it because — why? It never occurred to us? We’re too frightened?”
Predictably, in response to Tokio’s altered demeanor, Zanza too had a thread of ire in his voice. “Maybe Katsu’s seeing things clearer than you guys because he’s on the outside.”
“He’s a single-minded fanatic! He’s seeing exactly what he wants to see to support what he’s already decided to do.”
Zanza gave a rough sigh. “Look, this isn’t helping. You’ve… made some good points too, but…” His grudging tone still sounded angry, and his shake of head was just as rough as his sigh had been. “He’s my oldest friend. I’ve gotta figure this out on my own.” He started to turn away. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
Her gloved hand shot out and seized his gi in a crumpling grip. “And if we’re enemies then?” Even as she said the words she realized how much she didn’t want to be his enemy, how horrifying that thought was, and perhaps some of that rising emotion sounded in her voice.
“Then here’s a goodbye kiss.”
That should have been warning enough, but somehow finding herself in his arms took her completely by surprise, and the kiss even more so — perhaps because it was so unexpectedly furious. She’d kissed him before, of course, but she got the feeling now, as he attacked her mouth and nearly crushed her with his embrace, that he hadn’t been serious then. This was different: far more intense than she liked, as if he were seeking something to feed off of and she was not enough. It was arousing, but it didn’t feel right. If she had been superstitious, she would have said it portended disaster.
He was walking away before she even knew it was over. “And quit following me around!” he called over his shoulder.
Agitated, with a hand before her lips as if to shield the bittersweet sensation, she watched his aku ichimonji recede and disappear. Then with a deep, troubled breath, she spun and headed for the police station by the quickest route.
Hajime was absent from his office when she arrived there red-faced after jogging the last half of the trip. She sat on his desk for a moment to catch her breath, and occupied herself while her body cooled with looking over the papers he’d left out: a decent compilation of information about the Karashigumi. That he had left it out indicated he was still in the station somewhere, so as soon as she’d recovered from her run she rose again to find him. This goal would have to be accomplished solely by her own abilities, since she didn’t rank among the precinct’s most popular, and few of her co-workers inclined toward volunteering her husband’s whereabouts even when she was clearly looking for him.
It didn’t prove difficult, however: the nervousness of the guards stationed at the door across the main room from her indicated something was going on behind them, down the stairs in the cells. Generally the only thing that could cause such uneasiness in the ordinary police was Hajime himself, so it was probably a good guess he was interrogating a prisoner. And the only prisoner in whom he would take an interest at this juncture was the man they’d captured the other evening. Something must have come to light about the murdered woman. Since interrupting would be pointless, and since she couldn’t tell him what she needed to in front of anyone else in any case, she returned to his office to wait.
Seated properly in the actual chair at his desk, she skimmed the paperwork in front of her for something to do. Even these accounts of recent gang activity, though containing enough specifics to have some value as written reports, were as imperfect as she had expected: indicative of greater guidance and direction recently, but in no way incriminating of the politician she and Hajime believed was providing that guidance and direction. This was definitely something that needed to be worked on from the inside. If Zanza got himself incarcerated or killed going along with his friend’s suicidal plan, it would be back to the drawing board on how to deal with this yakuza and Rokumeikan. Of course that wasn’t the only reason for her concern about Zanza’s decision — in fact it was the farthest from her heart — but it carried considerable weight nonetheless.
It was not entirely surprising that, when her husband finally returned, the sound of his entrance startled her awake. Though he did look a little grimmer than usual, he didn’t chide her for this lapse; they were both awfully tired these days. She was somewhat embarrassed, though, and, as she sat up straight from the uncomfortable slump she’d fallen into, started immediately on her report to compensate:
“Zanza just had his big meeting with Tsukioka.”
Hajime stopped in front of the desk, giving no indication he wanted her out of his chair, and asked in a tone as dour as his expression, “How bad is it?”
She shook her head. “Bad.” And she related the conversation she’d overheard. It did not help Hajime’s face lighten.
“Did you talk to Zanza afterward?” He must know she would have wanted to.
She nodded, and now her voice was as dark as his. “He as good he said he doesn’t mind if we’re enemies the next time we meet.”
“‘As good as said?'”
Thinking of that disturbing kiss, Tokio’s frown deepened, and she shook her head again, this time to clear the memory. “I pointed out that a plan like that isn’t likely to work and Tsukioka isn’t thinking clearly… Zanza reminded me Tsukioka is his oldest friend, and said he has to figure this out on his own. Whatever else he might be thinking…”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“I wish I could tell you.” Situations like this, she knew, were the ones where her ability to read others was most useful, not to say crucial, and she hated feeling so helpless. “He’s torn. This is hitting him deeper than just on a logical level, and, Hajime, he’s so tempted.” She stared up unhappily at her husband, who, leaning on the desk, stared back with narrowed, pensive eyes.
Finally Hajime said, “Well, it’s his choice.” Lips tight between phrases, he turned away. Though his back was now to her, she would recognize from any angle the customary movements of pulling his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and singling one out for lighting. “We’ll see how much he actually wants to change.”
“I’ll deal with him.” Hajime seemed very tense as he let out a long initial stream of smoke and added tightly, “And Zanza too, if it comes to that.”
“Doing whatever I have to.” Which was Hajime’s life in a nutshell, but Tokio wondered if he would be willing to ‘do whatever he had to’ to prevent the disaster but still try, somehow, to keep Zanza on their side. Morosely she nodded, though he wouldn’t see it.
“I need you to go back to Rokumeikan’s mansion.”
“Mmm.” Wearily she accepted the change of subject. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
“That woman was supposedly a servant in his household.”
Finally, now with greater energy, Tokio got to her feet and left the desk. She found her husband staring at nothing in particular as he smoked, the line between his brows pronounced. The mention of the unfortunate murder victim had an electric effect on her, as Hajime had undoubtedly known it would in bringing it up. She felt all over again that sick, agitated despair and the urge toward motion in response to her inability to help that woman, her frustration that she wasn’t able to help in similar situations everywhere, and her desire for justice to be enacted on the perpetrators. The point she chose to raise out loud, however, was, “That’s an odd coincidence… That someone working for the politician we’re investigating would show up so close to our house…”
“The cab driver we managed to track down says he took her from Rokumeikan’s estate to that neighborhood just north of ours; apparently she was in some distress, but said she had friends there. She wanted to be let out down the street from their home, though, so the driver understood he shouldn’t ask questions. He, at least, was telling the truth as he knew it.”
“And the men who attacked her?”
“Apparently somebody not only knew when she was going to run, but where she would go, and sent someone after her. I thought at the time the way they killed her seemed more like a hit than a random crime. They were hired through the usual circuitous lowlife channels, though, so that’s a dead end.”
“How dead?” she asked wryly.
His eyes flicked over to her briefly, and his mouth curled into a mirthless smirk. “Very dead.”
“When Zanza hears that…” It probably wouldn’t be enough to keep him aligned with their purposes, but she thought he would take the same vindictive but justifiable pleasure in it that Hajime was. How she felt about it was beside the point, but under examination it might turn out to be identical.
“I’m sending Shimada and Kasai out there tomorrow to ask some questions. They’ll frame it like a routine investigation of a murder on the streets; nothing for Rokumeikan to worry about. I want you there to see how the household reacts.”
“What was she running from? Who put out a hit on her and why? And was it really just a coincidence she ended up so close to where we live?” Tokio spoke pensively, not merely laying out her mission objectives but pondering aloud.
“And is there anything in all of this we can use against Rokumeikan?” Hajime finished for her.
She nodded. “Well, you know how much I love sneaking around under windows and on balconies and hiding in the bushes.” And in actuality she did rather enjoy it… sometimes. “I suppose that means I’ll be out there tomorrow night.” This job might give her the chance to take steps toward avenging that unknown woman neither she nor her companions had been able to assist before, but in the middle of this business with Zanza and his radically idealistic friend, skulking around Rokumeikan’s mansion on the outskirts of the far side of Tokyo was the last place she wanted to be.
“It can’t be helped.”
She watched her husband steadily for a moment. Naturally the news of an impending bombing and the unpleasantness of the interrogation had left him in a dark frame of mind, but he was behaving even more curtly and unsympathetically than she would have expected under the circumstances. He must know how worried she was about the situation with Zanza and Tsukioka, yet all he gave her was a puff of smoke and, “It can’t be helped.” She thought the likeliest explanation for this was that he too was worried — more than he was willing to let on. She never had figured out why everything connected with Zanza seemed to carry such a charge where Hajime was concerned. She considered tormenting him over this, trying to get more out of him in one way or another, but thought better of it. He would, as he’d said, do whatever he had to… and she trusted him.
At last she asked, “When are the boys going to be there tomorrow?”
“7:00. I want them to catch Rokumeikan at home before he goes in to his office; he may be offended by their showing up that early, but I want his reaction as well as his household staff’s.”
She gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, already starting to plan. The route she took to any monitoring assignment must by necessity be unobtrusive and relatively untraceable, and she didn’t want to go the same way she had last time to Rokumeikan’s estate. So she would need to leave especially early in the morning to establish her position before the questioning officers arrived. Which meant she could probably squeeze in a few more hours of patrolling today before she went home to cook supper and some surveillance snacks and get to bed early. So the next question was, “Will you be home to eat tonight?” She definitely put an edge into the question; it was really more of a remonstrance, “You should come home to eat tonight.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Hajime replied somewhat stiffly.
“That’s what I thought,” she said in disapproval. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, then.” And she headed for the office door. Before leaving the room, however, she had to turn. “And…” No matter how closed-off Hajime was, no matter how much she trusted him to deal with the situation appropriately, she simply had to say something. “Don’t be too hard on him.”
He gave her another smile that did not touch his eyes, this one somewhat cryptic, as he replied, “Only as hard as I need to be.”
Far from satisfied but having no other choice, she hurried on her way, unsure whether she was most annoyed with her husband for refusing to confide in her, Zanza for having her so agitated in the first place, Tsukioka for his revolutionary craziness, or Rokumeikan for dragging her away from all of this just at the wrong moment. Well, Zanza couldn’t really be blamed for being pulled in opposite directions by polarized ideals. And as for Hajime not confiding in her… technically she hadn’t actually asked. And the other two nearly canceled each other out: Rokumeikan, who used the government and his position in it to full advantage, and Tsukioka, who would like nothing more than its downfall even if it cost him his life.
But Rokumeikan, or at least someone in his circle, had driven a woman to her death, and Tokio still hadn’t even learned her name (for she was sure Hajime, no matter what kind of mood he was in, would have mentioned if he’d found it out, knowing how much she would want to hear it). And because of that already unforgivable deed, Tokio was going to miss the outcome of everything else she was primarily worried about at the moment. So she supposed, after all, she was most annoyed at Rokumeikan Hatsuo and his inhumane selfishness and corruption. She’d rather suspected that might be the case.