The Way of the Samurai

[Kitteh]

It had been a few years since the split Mugen suspected, though he really never kept count. To be honest, he didn’t even know what year it was, much less how many had passed since his “mission” had ended. Life for Mugen hadn’t really changed at all; he was still as crude and insane as ever. Nothing was ever important enough to grant his attention unless it was booze, a brothel, or a fight. Naturally he preferred things this way, of course. No dumb little bitch bossing him around about some sunflower guy, nor a mute ronin acting righteous all of the time. Fuck, it was great to be a loner again.

Besides, what the hell was a sunflower anyway? Mugen never did figure it out completely. Ah well. It seemed Fuu got her answer so he didn’t question it ever again; it was no longer his business. He didn’t really care.

Earlier that morning, Mugen had managed to snag a few mon from a gamble. He had previously been hired for a hit, but he just wasn’t feeling it at the time. Nah, gambling seemed much more entertaining and worth his while. I mean, his target was an old guy of about seventy; no way that could be any fun. It was almost insulting that they would even hire him, so skilled and talented, for something so meager and pathetic.

He lost. Thievery ensued.

Some intense running later, he found himself a quaint little tea house, far enough from his opponents that they shouldn’t find him here. His feet were tired and he was absolutely famished. He loudly smacked his stomach, and then rubbed it for good measure in an attempt to ease the grumbling that was emitting from it.

While waiting to place his order, he used his dirty finger nail on his pinky finger to pry out some remnants of food matter from his left incisor.

“Gimme whatever this can buy,” he mumbled irritably, slapping his money down on the counter in front of him. He already knew it wouldn't get him much. The counter tender nodded, and handed him a stick of four multi-colored dumplings. Mugen looked greatly disappointed; just one stick. Damn, he was just so hungry.

He found himself a large open table, and sprawled out on it, munching eagerly on his dango. Mugen could only afford one, so prior to sitting down to feast he blatantly stole another from some poor, random victim. The old man took one swift look at him, and left without protest. Mugen didn’t even have to try to scare people; his face was naturally designed for it.

He should have been ashamed, stealing from the elderly. But of course he wasn’t. Mugen didn’t figure he’d live long enough to bother having such weak and obsolete feelings of guilt or integrity. And why should he? No one ever gave them to him. That didn’t bother him either. In fact, he liked that no one cared for him; made things so much easier. To have commitment to something, well, it was downright overrated. Not that it really mattered; he wouldn’t love anyone. Even if someone desperately loved him; he would refuse to return it. It was the principle of the matter, and the only way he knew how to live.

It was an interesting viewpoint, and horribly ironic when one brought up his previous relationships with Jin and Fuu. He traveled with them, tolerated them, seemed to like them enough. Whatever possessed him to do it in the first place was beyond him. He just wanted some adventure, he was sure it wasn’t for any reason like he actually cared for these people. Thinking about it made him nauseous.

Ah well. It was all in the past now. It wasn’t often he thought of them anyway.

So why was he suddenly doing just that?

“Meh,” he grumbled once more, staring up at the ceiling as he stuffed the remainder of his food into his mouth in one bite. Bits of it began falling out as he chewed without any sign of manners nearby, his mouth completely agape like a starving dog.

 

[Cash]

• • One foot in front of the other, slowly, achingly, the rounin trudged onward, his white tabi socks darkened with dirt from hours of travel with no rest. The ache in his feet had long ago faded into a dull, throbbing but incessant pain but more obvious than that was the lack of one of the most important necessities of life. He closed his eyes and for a moment his pace was broken, if only to allow a wave of nausea to pass, the head rush, and once the pain behind his bespectacled eyes faded he continued. ”I must find some clean water,” he murmured to himself, turning his head in the direction of the town he had chosen to bypass earlier but could no longer afford to do so. "And a place to rest.." He had taken his chances with water from a stream some days ago and suffered a severe bought of diarrhea for days after and could no longer afford to go without.
    
    The town was one he was familiar with, so he knew which shops to avoid due to an unpaid tab from previous visits. He weaved through the crowd, his pace neither rushed nor particularly slow, his head adorned in a straw hat lowered slightly to keep the sun from his fair skinned face. The hand not kept habitually on the katana at his waist dug discreetly in the pocket of his hakama to finger the coins that remained from his last job, knowing full well that he could afford at least a cup of tea if he so desired it, but in exchange would not be able to buy even a bowl of plain rice. He would have to make a decision, and he would have to have nourishment if he was to continue; he had grown thinner, his clothes hung from his body differently and he had to keep his clothes tied more tightly.
    
    He made his way through a stagnant crowd by pushing through the immobile bodies with a murmured apology and an apologetic bowed head; the falsely submissive stance put off people who may have otherwise objected to his passing. As he neared the front of the gathering an aggressive onlooker began shouting at the men assaulting a girl who assumed worked for the teashop they stood before; she was being harassed, it seemed, by some faceless thugs. He swept his dark eyes across the scene dismissively, his policy to be strictly uninvolved in matters that would surely involve fighting and the authorities. Her cries went unrecognized as he brushed passed, a grunt in the direction of the assailants.
    
    He found the occupants of the teahouse distracted by the ruckus outside aside from a ragged man at a corner tablet, the style of dress alone making him nonchalantly take a double take, his long black pony tail swinging around his face. His glasses caught a stray beam of sunlight and were momentarily illuminated as he arched one dark brow, his expressionless features taking on a look of amusement. The moment passed.
    
    The cries outside grew louder as the situation grew more heated and the owners of the shop quaked with worry for the girl outside. “Oh, that poor girl,” one of them murmured. There was no server to offer him a drink, so Jin took the moment to remove his hat, and rest it upon a vacant tabletop, a swift flick of the wrist sent it skittering across the smooth surface until it came to a stop inches from Mugen’s elbow. The samurai was staring towards the window, looking out, observing.
    
    He spoke in the young man’s direction without actually looking at him, his mouth barely moving, his hand more actively wrapped around the blue and white patterned kamon, the white diamonds on the hilt flashing as he moved through the bar of uninfiltrated afternoon sunshine.
    
    “Hm. You have not changed a bit. “ He was actually referring to the both of them.

 

[Kitteh]

The only two things that could pull Mugen away from his meal was sex or a challenge. Yet for some reason he managed to look over to his old traveling companion with a smirk. “Yeah, four-eyes, neither have you. Still uptight as ever, I see.” He was none-too polite as he blabbed with his mouth stuffed with the dumplings, bits falling out around his mouth and on the front of his shirt.

He would never admit it, but the guy was sort of a sight for sore eyes. Sort of. He would much rather have encountered that chick that denied him his well-deserved sex over and over again. What the hell was that bitch’s name? Ah well. Jin would suffice, he supposed.

 

[Cash]

The samurai proceeded to seat himself at the table opposite Mugen, his legs folded beneath him, and reached over to pluck from Mugen's place his only other stick of dango. The waitress was standing not a foot from the pair, awaiting some direction, so to her her said simply, "Water." He took a large bite out of the food with much more dignity than Mugen could manage, having more pride and self-worth in a single finger than the pirate probably had in his entire body. He chewed it thoughtfully, observing Mugen with dark, thoughtful eyes.

Mugen was precisely as Jin had remembered him, though he probably shouldn't have really been surprised. He was wearing the same clothing, everything. It was as though time had stopped for him, and the past two years hadn't happened at all. It was like they had just split up yesterday, and at any moment Fuu would come bursting in with some irritating remark about the quest she had fooled them into taking with her.

The nostalgia was almost enough to make him feel bad for pilfering Mugen's lunch. Almost.