Three Samurai and Pisha

He dragged her out of the sweaty, tinted interior and tossed her into the street. She hit the crosswalk knees-first, her sneakers dragging behind her through the pavement.

Gasoline exhaust filled her nose, the asphalt warm against her cheek. She squinted, raising a hand to the beaming midday sun.

Colourful street signs and traffic cones dotted the quiet suburb. Sagging telephone wires wrapped around her, helmeted bikers whizzing past and rattling a bush on the nearby curb.

A man hauling a jam-packed shopping bag stopped to gawk at her sprawled out on the crosswalk. Whatever. After everything that’d happened, the mundane neighbourhood felt like heaven. If the Excursors completely forgot about Pisha and left her behind, she’d have no complaints.

Anma slipped her pistol out of its holster. “Get up. The reports said this could be one of Moroya’s.”

Pisha’s peace didn’t last long. She slammed her palms and peeled her face off the gritty pavement.

Stand up. Take this. Walk here. Did their muzzles stop them from saying ‘please’?

The pedestrian signal in front of her chirped, flicking to green. Past the scattered traffic cones, and huddled between a convenience store and a brick building ahead, was a dim alleyway.

Anma eyed a blinking dot on her cellphone screen. She twisted the knob on her muzzle and ducked into the narrow back street. Bats followed, and Pisha dragged herself to her feet, turning her own dial before taking up the rear.

The whirring of bikes vanished, leaving only their hushed footsteps. Nearby buildings blotted out the light, leaving the tall concrete walls around them in total shade. Low-hanging signs crowded the passage, forcing Anma, and anyone else unlucky enough to push six-feet-tall, into a crouch.

Pisha dragged her free hand against the bricks, greasy with grime.

She could’ve made a break for it. Run away, as far as she could, but there wasn’t any point when the A.O.A. could track her muzzle.

Bats slouched in front of her. At least if anything happens, I’m behind those two…

Squelch.

Warmth soaked the toe of her trainers. A puddle. The dampness seeped through the mesh upper, drenching her socks in a thick slime.

She clamped a hand over her nose. The air had a nasty, coppery taste that stung at her throat. The same metallic tang as yesterday when she’d hit the cement.

The kind of stench that made you wish you couldn’t smell anything at all. Blood.

A whole trail of it, leading into the dark crevice ahead.

The alley widened into the rear entrance of a department store. A loading bay. Rusted steel shutters lined the walls. A faded sign where half the letters had peeled off sat above a low, overhanging roof, exposing only a sliver of light.

At the centre of it all, the single sliver of light lit up a hunched figure. And around them, corpses. Tens of them, strewn across the bay. Some were stuffed face-first into crates. An arm dangled from the roof. The legs of another stuck out of a metal dumpster like death-scented incense sticks.

Was that how she’d looked yesterday?

No. This was in a league of its own.

It looked staged. Dried blood was splattered half-way up the shutters. The bay reeked, somewhere between rotting rubbish and expired chemicals. It was a slaughterhouse.

The figure finally rose, stepping into the spotlight. Pitch-black hair tied into a ponytail. A hakama that reached down to his ankles. A long, lustrous sword. And there was no muzzle covering his sharp face.

“I.E! Drop your weapon.” Anma raised her pistol.

The man sheathed his blade. “The A.O.A. is swift these days.” His gaze snaked across the group, landing on Pisha. “You. Are you the one Moroya called immortal?”

Pisha froze. “How’d you—”

Anma’s safety clicked off.

“That’s classified information,” she said. “And don’t make me repeat myself.”

Bats unhooked the two blades from his back.

“I’d sooner die than kneel to a muzzled dog.” The man shifted into a low stance. “You’ll be coming with me, Immortal.” His hakama sagged to the blood-stained ground.

Pisha’s fingers tightened around the taser.

She stared at the corpses surrounding him. If he actually got his hands on her…

Bang!

Anma’s gun lit up the bay in a strobing orange. Pisha barely registered the swordsman drawing and sheathing his blade in one impossibly quick motion. The bullet clattered to the ground in front of him with a spark.

Anma emptied the rest of the magazine into him, littering the ground with brass casings. Bullet after bullet split into pieces before him, filling the bay with lead dust. But this time, he hadn’t even moved.

How’s that even?—

“My turn!” Machetes in hand, Bats charged into the swordsman’s side.

The swordsman swivelled towards him as Anma continued firing. The machetes ricocheted off the man’s weapon with a flick of his wrist, parrying one with the tip of his blade and the other with his guard. He pivoted on his heel, letting a machete slam harmlessly into the cement, then twisted his body and severed Anma’s bullet.

Bats wrenched his blade free and swung wide. The swordsman deflected it with the flat of his sword, sending it whizzing past his ear. He leapt back, clearing a stack of crates, and sliced through the empty air above the wood before returning his sword to its sheath.

Bats chased after him, knocking the same pallets forwards. The crates splintered, sending woodchips flying, and a half-second later, a matching gash cleaved through Bats’s chest.

He blinked out of existence, reappearing beside Pisha. His blood sprayed across her and the steel shutters behind them as he doubled over, blood streaming through his fingertips.

“He didn’t even touch me…” Bats wheezed.

“Stay back, Bats!” Anma tossed a magazine to the ground, circling around the swordsman.

A translucent chain manifested between the sword and a sheet of cardboard nearby. But, the moment it appeared, the swordsman’s arm blurred. He sliced through the chain, separating the glimmering steel links. They dissolved into a haze of violet glitter.

“He’s fast,” Anma hissed.

The tip of his blade scraped against the ground as he stalked towards Pisha and Bats.

Pisha staggered back, thudding into the hard concrete beneath.

“I wonder what Moroya sees in you.” He locked eyes with her.

Ah. Disappointment. That familiar look she’d seen a hundred times before. From her classmates, her parents. From everybody.

Pisha couldn’t move. Thick, warm blood dripped down her face, coating her lips. Bats’s blood. She couldn't bring herself to look at Bats. He'd have the same look. He had to. After all, the Director had made a big deal out of her, and she was already moments from losing their first battle. He was bleeding out beside her, and she was next, unable to do anything.

But, for some reason, Bats was smiling. A bloody, heaving smile as he clutched his chest. Pisha’s hands fumbled for her holster.

“Back off!” She jerked her taser up and fired it straight ahead with a loud, electric crack.

The probes flew forward, only to freeze in mid-air, a metre from the swordsman’s face. They hung suspended there, sizzling against what looked like an invisible web of static.

“There’s something… in the air?” she muttered.

He lifted his sword. “Immortality is wasted on a coward.”

“Shit.” Pisha threw her arms up.

The blade plunged down, snapping through her wires. Right as the steel kissed her forehead, the world itself warped, pinching sideways.

She crashed into the ground next to Anma, hands still outstretched. Sparks showered as his blade ricocheted off the spot where she’d just been.

“He sheathed his blade right before Bats was hit.” Anma’s gaze darted between the sizzling wires and to the bullet casings on the ground. “And right before slicing my bullets with thin air…” Her eyes widened under her angular lenses.

“His swings. They remain in the air.” Anma spun towards Bats. “The sheath’s the switch, Bats!”

Bats pulled himself up, swaying, as the pool of blood around him boiled into a crimson steam. He steadied himself on his machete.

“Got it.” His mouth twisted into a crazed smile.

He lunged at the man again, but this time, he was completely engulfed in the red vapour. His machetes screamed, scraping across the sword’s edge. The swordsman ducked, only for a cleaver to pulverise the pillar behind him, raining concrete dust. Thin air minced the debris.

Bats might’ve been wounded, coated in blood, but somehow, he was way faster than before. His attacks moved too quickly to even track. Metal clanged on metal as the swordsman parried a swing, the force sending him skating back. He hacked into his draped sleeves, gasping for air.

“You’re up,” Anma said.

Pisha’s ears popped. One second, she was by Anma. The next, she was stumbling a couple feet behind Bats and the enemy.

Her eyes darted across the bay, finding Anma on the other side.

You bitch.

“Bats has him pinned.” Anma’s voice buzzed in her earpiece. “Go for his sheath.”

The swordsman’s back was turned, laser-focused on the powered-up Bats. It wouldn’t be long before he noticed her.

Still, Anma couldn’t touch him. And Bats couldn’t take another hit, either.

She turned the taser in her palm, where her small scrapes were knitting themselves back together.

If she did nothing and they died, she’d be at that mass murderer’s mercy. And, unlike the Director, he probably wouldn’t be using anaesthetics when he cut her open.

Like he’d sensed her hesitation, the swordsman whipped his head towards her.

God damnit.

Pisha was plenty of things. Weak, clumsy, hypocritical, sure. But she wasn’t a coward.

She threw herself forwards, kicking up dust as she vaulted across the ramp.

At the same time, his weapon arced into her, ripping through her stomach.

Gravity vanished.

The bay tilted ninety degrees. A burning-hot, searing tear opened at her waist. Her torso split off her bottom half as her vision blew out into white smudges.

The air rushed out from her lungs. She choked. Her legs crumpled out from under her with a wet slap. The pain splintered her thoughts into smithereens.

But gravity and momentum were still dragging her dead-weight, literally, forward. Her innards unspooled in the air behind her

Whether it was will, pure instinct, or a little bit of both, she forced her scattered mind back together. Only two things remained.

Pain. A hell of a lot of it, actually. And Anma’s words.

Her soaring torso slammed into the swordsman’s hips.

She scraped the last ounce of strength into her arms and clung to his hakama with her nails, trailing blood as she slipped down his robes. Her trigger hand flew towards his sheath.

“Don’t forget about me!” Bats hauled his hatchet forwards.

The swordsman leapt out of the way, leaving Pisha in the dirt. He swung for another mid-air trap, but this time…

Clink.

She watched as his hilt bounced out of the sheath. Right where she’d stuffed her taser into it.

It’s jammed.

Bats didn’t waste a moment. He caught the tip of the sword between the notched teeth of one machete. Instantly, an amethyst chain snagged the blade and ripped it away. The swordsman’s knuckles, clutching the blade just moments before, were now ghost-white around a crushed bullet shell.

Before he could look up, Bats swung the other machete’s handle around towards his head. It caught him square in the temple, sending him capsizing to the floor with a heavy thud, his robes rustling behind him.

The impact vibrated through the floor, rattling in Pisha’s skull. She lay twitching on the oil-stained ramp. Her vision had all but disappeared.

Her spine began to scrape across the concrete like rusted nails to a magnet. It popped into place with a painful, fleshy crunch, her muscles melting and fusing back together.

Anma’s silhouette swam into view above.

“Pisha?” Her voice was muffled, like she’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. “You still with us?”

Pisha hacked up blood in response as the air rushed into her lungs.

I know I wanted to die, but I didn’t think I’d be doing it more than once.

Anma hooked an arm around her shoulder and helped her up. The pair stumbled over to the now unconscious swordsman.

Bats was already there, grasping his still-bleeding chest. The bubbling cloud around him condensed into red droplets, drizzling blood onto the cement.

Pisha eased off Anma and planted her feet on the ground. The three huddled there, panting, circled around the twitching body for a moment.

The silence was broken by Anma’s uniform crinkling as she crouched down beside the swordsman.

“I wonder.” She unhooked a metal brace from her belt.

It snapped around his neck with an echoing click.

“How’s that for a coward?” Pisha spat a glob of blood onto his hakama. “Prick.”

* * *

“On a scale from one to ten, how would you describe your pain level during the encounter?”

The A.O.A staffer stared at his tablet. He sat across from Pisha wearing a suit, tie, and a see-through lab coat on top. The steam from his fresh coffee fogged up his tinted glasses. He blew across it before setting it down.

“…10.” Pisha tapped her fingers against the white table, rattling the spoon in the mug.

White, white, everything in the A.O.A. was white. The hospital was white, the cramped dormitory they’d slept in was white, and now the questioning room they were in was white, too. The brightness seared into her retinas like a logo burned into an old monitor.

She rubbed her waist, still itching where she’d been bisected just yesterday. This interrogation made no sense to her. They’d won yesterday, after all.

What is this, some sort of post-game interview!?

The tablet vibrated between his hands, lighting up his glasses with a notification. He tapped the screen, and the door slid open.

“Miss Anma,” he said.

Anma entered, her fingers on her muzzle. The dark, metal mask around her mouth looked like alien technology in the sterile room.

Suddenly, his tablet was on the table and the steaming cup of coffee was in his hands. He blinked down at the mug.

She marched towards the table and grabbed Pisha’s wrist. “That’s enough data for today. You may refer to my report for the rest.” Anma nodded at the staffer.

“But—” Before he could argue, she dragged Pisha towards the entrance.

Anma scanned her keycard with an electronic beep. She shoved Pisha through the doorway, blasting her with cold air.

The questioning room opened up into a caged, elevated walkway overlooking the facility. Past the metal mesh, and past the Tokyo skyline, the sun was just rising, staining its glass towers orange and teal like a run-of-the-mill modern blockbuster. Their steps echoed over the morning’s whistling wind on the grates underneath.

“Woah. Since when’re you nice?” Pisha frowned.

She dragged her hand across the metal fence.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Anma said. “Your time’s better spent training. That’s all.”

“Training, right.”

Pisha glanced down at the facility’s tin roof, peeking through the rusted grates.

She had no idea what training entailed for her. How do you even train an ability like immortality?

Her stomach curdled. Actually, I probably don’t want to know the answer to that.

“Hey.” She sprang in front of Anma, forcing her to stop. “Yesterday, you said that guy shouldn’t have known about me. What’d you mean by that?”

The chill morning air fluttered her hair across her face, snagging on the gaps in her muzzle.

“Like I said, your existence was classified information. Supposed to be, at least.” Anma took a single step to her left and brushed past her.

Pisha spun around, closing the gap with a couple hurried steps. “Then how'd he find out? You guys have government ties, there's no way that stuff just leaks.”

“Correct. It means someone in the A.O.A. handed Moroya your file.”

Pisha stopped dead in her tracks. “Moroya? I thought he died in the Shinjuku attack!”

“The original did. Back in ‘02,” Anma said. “This one’s just a copycat using his name.”

“Okay, but a terrorist’s still a terrorist.” She aimed an accusatory finger at the woman. “And someone’s feeding classified data to him. Isn’t that a big deal?”

“It’s being handled.”

The pair stopped in front of a thick, panelled door. Anma hovered a keycard over its reader and it split down the middle, retracting into the wall.

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #03

Ability: Cache.

Description:

Store a weapon’s previous path as an invisible, destructive field in the atmosphere.

Limitations:

Path remains inert until the weapon is fully secured.

Obstruction of the securing mechanism causes established paths to dissipate.