Just in Time for the Cherry Blossoms

 "Ah." His gaze drifted across the street. "Of course."

"Really?" In the corner of his vision, her eyebrows shot up. "Suddenly not interested?"

He offered her a smile. "Maybe I'm just wary of making deals with spirits."

"Apart from the fact you already have?" She encompassed him with a gesture, smiling slightly back.

"Well... that one wasn't exactly a mutual agreement." To put it lightly.

"Oh. I see." She blinked, her ears angling back slightly. Maybe she did, then, if he could ascribe feelings like that to a being thousands of years old.

With a shrug, tilting his head slightly, he said, "But beggars can't be choosers. You're offering me free passage in, no questions, no chance of anyone looking sideways at an obake gaijin and tossing me out on sight?"

He wasn't really sure if that smile was meant to be threatening, smug, or vaguely flirty. Probably all three. "With a kami vouching for you? I've already taken in one gaijin for this year's applicants— I wouldn't want him to get lonely."

"You're really serious. Alright." He tapped at his leg, studying an unlit window with a little flowerpot on the ledge. "One last question."

"Go ahead."

He met her amused gaze. "Can SC members be assigned to Kaijan?"

Her eyebrows rose delicately, keen amber eyes looking right through him. "Well, I suppose you don't know much about the Samurai program, do you? You're aware that Kaijan has the highest number of oni and onikaiju invasions in the world, at least?"

Couldn't say he'd heard of any Samurai program at all. He frowned, a vague memory of something—obake mages?—tickling at the back of his mind. The statistics, though, he'd heard of those. "I think everyone has. Though the movies aren't as famous as Kaiju in Edo."

Wait a minute, hadn't there been a movie where four men took on the onikaiju invasion of Nihon that'd happened almost forty years ago? The old infamous one where everyone died? Four Samurai.... He eyed her. "Or the one with the guys who fought that kaiju in robot suits."

She winked. "Not robot suits, but close. They're called Samurai, and we use them to fight the demons who crawl out of the sea. And if you take my offer, you'll get to pilot one."

Pilot one. "Like a... fighter jet?" With legs?

"You'll see." Her smile was definitely impish. "So? Will you accept? Of course, if you don't, someone's bound to realise what you are eventually, and you might find yourself on the other end of the SC instead."

Well, when she put it like that....

He nodded. "You've got a deal."

_____________________

She told him to make it up to Edo in a week, in time for the cherry blossoms.

Probably a good thing she did, because he spent the next day feeling like a giant had stomped on him, and managed to get himself unceremoniously kicked out of helping Oji put his life back together after he nearly faceplanted on the beach. The old man hadn't said much the morning after he'd threatened Shimizu's life and home, when Lachlan groggily stumbled into breakfast an hour late and Oba's sweet rice magically appeared in front of him with no lecture attached.

"Everything's fine," he'd told them, not really willing to say much with the children fussing around helping with dishes and stealing glances at him. "He won't cause any more trouble."

Oji did appear in his room in the afternoon, though, after the near-collapse incident, while he was busy feeling utterly miserable and vaguely considering drawing on his yuurei just to get rid of the exhaustion headache. Lachlan peeled his arm away from his face to peer blearily at the old man and mumble some kind of query, only to have a little glowing jar tossed in his face.

If he'd been expected to catch it, then that was entirely unfair.

Once he'd finished cursing out the lump on his head and dismissed Oji's unapologetic apology—the man's eyes hadn't twinkled this much since the recent money troubles, damn him—his sludgy brain abruptly caught up with the implications, and he stared at the jar like he'd just been gifted a burning box of matches.

"I had Oba make a little today, otherwise I would have given it to you earlier. You were foolish not to keep any of the other stuff."

He eyed him. "Did you guess it today, or...?"

Oji shook his head. "Oba and I have known since the eclipse in your first year here."

Since the...? He blinked, running a hand through his loose hair, hazy memories of falling sick and a strange, fuzzy dream of running around as a wolf pulling themselves from the attic. But he'd thought— The kids had said he'd never moved from his near-comatose state when he'd asked. "Huh. I'm surprised you didn't turn me in."

"Of course we didn't. You're family," the old man sniffed. And immediately shattered all the warm fuzzies with a toothy grin. "And besides, wolves are lucky."

"Ayuh." He rolled his eyes to the heavens. "There's fine print attached to that one. You should know wolves from the Islans are excluded."

Oji leaned against the doorjamb. "Well, in this case it has brought us luck."

"Mm." He turned the jar in his hands, feeling the coolness of the glass against his right. "...I met someone. A kami. She... gave me a chance to join the Shadow Corps. Said she'd endorse me."

It still seemed almost like some crazy wish-fulfilment dream. Maybe he'd collapsed after he'd left the building and hallucinated the entire thing, or after he made it home, because he absolutely couldn't remember even hitting his futon. But he doubted it.

Oji had stilled in the corner of his eye. "You're.... When will you be leaving? Why didn't you tell us?"

He made a face. "Bit out of it, I'll be honest. I didn't want to mention it in front of Aiko and Tobira, either. But I'm not leaving tomorrow— she gave me a week to sort out things before I head up to Edo. The... academy, or whatever they call it, doesn't open until next week, anyway."

"Hm, a week.... Well, that isn't too bad. You can manage a few fishing trips with me, at least."

He rolled a look at him from under his bangs. Needed to trim those before he left, too. "Fishing. Of course."

Oji cleared his throat. "You should call to let us know what Edo's like."

Lachlan smiled quietly to himself, finally popping the lid off the glimmer and dipping the tip of a finger in, sucking on it. "I'll call every week. Keep you updated."

"...Perhaps not every week. Sangoro-san might start charging me if I use his telephone that much."

"I'll pay for it." He waved a hand.

"Well. That will be alright, then."

"I'll also leave the money I'm not taking with me." His headache eased to a dull throb as he carefully gathered more of the glimmer. Ingesting too much of it would be worse than painting too much on his skin. "Use it to pay off your debts."

Oji shook his head. "I won't let you do that, Roku-kun. The mistakes I've made are my own—"

"I'm doing it for the family, Ojii-san. Don't look a gift-horse in the mouth. You can repay me later if you want, but I'd consider this paying off what I owe." He met his eyes. "You've been good to me. I won't forget that."

For once, he'd managed to strike the old man speechless. Maybe he should be sincere more often.

Smiling with a shake of his head, he flapped a hand at him. "And I'll buy you a pint sometime. You need it."

"Ah Roku-kun, you have a kind heart after all," Oji said gravely, and bowed to him.

It was funny, he couldn't think up a reply to that. Maybe sincerity worked on him, too.

In the end, he just bowed back from where he sat on the floor.

_____________________

The rest of the week passed by in a haze of busyness and anticipation, the children clamoring to spend every moment they possibly could with him when they weren't in town for school, Oji taking up the rest of his time with the borrowed boat and rebuilding the shed.

It felt like he fell into his futon at the end of every day and barely felt his head hit the pillow, Aiko scolding him for his "fuzzy face" when he forgot to shave for three days. Little girls apparently had firm opinions on facial hair, and didn't like him starting to look like Oji. He got a hi-five in agreement out of Tobira when he stated that having a beard was cool, though. They had a nice moment of commiseration over the girls not understanding things like that.

So he found himself on the eve of his journey packing his things far sooner than he'd thought into the faithful rucksack that'd made it with him all the way from Scandin.

It wasn't much apart from the essentials. He couldn't take his rifle—might get him into trouble if he tried taking it on the train—but his dad's old pistol made it in, safely tucked in the bottom with the half-empty case of 9mm rounds. Carefully, he dug out the old leather jacket from the corner tucked by his bedside cabinet/tiny chest of drawers, moving to place it on top.

And hesitated as a glint peeked through its folds, his fingers gently teasing out the little fairy pendant that must've worked its way out at some point. He traced the ragged edge of the torn-off corner on the left wing, giving it a careful once-over in case it'd been damaged. Well, more than it already was. The knot in the improvised cord had stayed put, tied as firmly as he'd been taught a lifetime ago.

He closed his hand around it briefly. "Don't worry about me, Ma."

The words sounded strange in a country they didn't belong to. Exhaling, he tucked it back in next to the green beaded bracelet, brushing the four-leaf clover for luck, and carefully folded the jacket again to go in the pack.

Dawn found him unashamedly forcing hugs on the entire Inoue family, Oji's slightly awkward but hearty back slap, Oba's tears plus some extra things for his lunch, the children threatening to cling to him until he reached town, and all. He left them with a wave and a smile, pulling the collar of his hanten coat up against the cold and whistling off down the road with the brisk seabreeze threatening to blow his hat over his head.

With the motorbike needed for taking the kids off to school later, walking it was. Not that he minded. He greeted a few of the others heading off to fish under the eye of the sun about to rise over the horizon on his way, accepting well-wishes and playful jabs alike until he reached the end of the village and the powerlines were his only company.

Apart from the wildlife, at least. He whistled to a heron picking through the reeds, the bird watching him warily as he strode down the hard-packed dirt road, avoiding muddy potholes. A pair of swallows serenaded him with good luck, too, swooping low over the wild grasses and through the trees trailing over the river.

Soon enough, the sun rose high enough to drive the chill away, and he rolled up his coat, tucking it on the back of his rucksack. By the time he spotted farmland past the wild fields with the distant mountains standing sentinel over them all, he'd put his trimmed—but still admittedly pretty long—hair in a high ponytail to keep it from becoming a sweaty mess and rolled up his sleeves. There was no one around to see his scars, anyway; like hell would he wear gloves in this weather.

I think I'll be just in time to see the last petal come off the cherry trees at this rate, he thought wryly to himself as he took his early lunch break on the riverbank, tossing a little piece of fish in another heron's direction and watching it eye him suspiciously. Going to be a warm one. Joy.

One brief nap and more walking later—complete with patting a friendly cow—he strolled into town, making it in time for the noon train to Edo. Apart from a couple of old men giving him the eye, no one paid him any heed, and he didn't catch hide nor hair of Shimizu. The whole place seemed to have slumbered past the events of a week ago. And I'll be perfectly fine if it stays that way, he thought as he stepped onto the train, ticket in reluctantly-gloved hand, and left it all behind.

He spent his time watching the scenery chug by, farmland, coastal cliffs winding back into forested valleys, and small towns steadily marching on, Oji's little family left miles behind along with the village.

When they finally rolled into Edo's busy station with a blast of the whistle, leaving the evening sunlight behind, he stretched, yawning. Hadn't really noticed the journey through the outskirts of the city—must've fallen asleep at some point.

Hefting the rucksack over his shoulder with one hand, he filed out onto the platform, rubbing the bleariness from his eyes and blinking up into the bright light beaming down through the glass ceiling. Glass... ceiling? His gaze paused, flicking down over snazzy lino-white columns stretching up to join with brick and steel beams across the way, a big ol' analog clock sitting next to the electronic platform display.

...Apparently he'd rebounded all the way to Blackpool Station somewhere in there.

This place is... a lot. A low hum of conversation, quieter than any station back in Wilind, followed him through the gate—about the only thing keeping his head from spinning with the sheer vertigo of this much deja vu. Besides the familiar smell of Nihonjin-style food wafting from somewhere, at least, and he abruptly realised how hungry he was when his stomach decided then and there to growl like his pet shadow putting in a word. Which garnered him a couple of side-eyes.

Amaterasu's sword bits. He puffed a stray strand of hair out of his face. Well, dinner-time then, s'pose.

He picked up the pace—didn't exactly have pleasant memories of big stations like this, anyway, with the cramped and crowded tunnel giving him mild claustrophobia to boot—and strode past colourful posters framed on the tiled wall for the bright lights of the exit. Which promptly opened around him like a stadium of colour and noise.

He almost stopped short to gape at it all like a caveman seeing a modern city for the first time, except he was pretty certain the roof of the station was still there. An entire town had just taken up residence inside, from the looks of it.

Damn. He kept moving, avoiding running into anyone on autopilot as he swept his gaze over the more traditional-style buildings that also happened to be walls, swooping eaves sticking out with lines stringing lanterns and flags—and... clothes?— between them, balconies above, entire cafes and food chains below. The genuine article, too, set out like someone's imagined idea of how it worked in Wilind and southern Rhinan, with brightly-lit order boards, cartoon advertising mascots, and all.

Where the hell am I? Sun, land, and sea— a city inside a train station. He turned on his heel, looking up at the timetable screen above the gate he'd just come through, directions to other platforms on the side pointing away down the other end of the "street". My eyes hurt.

Well, at least the routes to the exits were clearly marked. First things first: food. Narrowing his focus down to the shops, he flowed with the chatting crowd, flicking his eyes keenly over everything on display. Wonder if they have....

Aha! He grinned to himself, cutting across the traffic in a few long strides and making straight for the big letters written in Angaelic spelling out LMFC: Lucy-Mae's Fried Chicken, or as everyone had known it back home, "Love My Feckin' Chooks".

Do love my feckin' chooks. It only had a little storefront counter directly facing the street, so he moved into line just as the man ahead of him finished paying and stepped away with an order ticket in hand.

"Welcome, welcome." The cashier spoke in heavily accented Angaelic with a smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "You foreigner here? Want taste of home, ah?"

He almost didn't understand her for a moment, it'd been so long since he'd heard his mothertongue. Hefting his rucksack off his shoulder and letting it rest at his feet, he smiled back, choosing to keep to Nihonjin. "Hai. Been a long time since I've had anything like this."

"Ahh, you'll want the big selection bucket, then." The twinkle in her eye said she had him, and she really did.

He quickly checked the board. Just enough En to pay for it, and a little spare, too. He gave her a little grin, pulling his wallet from his pocket. "You must be able to read minds, ma'am—"

A grunt behind him and a sudden shift in the air were his only warnings.

Instinctively, he twisted away, someone whipping past him in a rush, the fist or knife or whatever he'd been expecting not connecting. What the—? They just ran straight past him into the crowd like a bat out of hell.

—His battered rucksack disappearing with them.