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His hair was still wet.
The heavy chill against his head was the first sensation that brought Goemon back to the world of the living. Sweat drew twitches from gauze-wrapped fingers. Deep beneath tight bandages, cut skin ached. Lips struggled to keep a neutral bow. The ronin had to count his blessings. He still had all of his digits and limbs. A single tug from steel wires could have cut any of them off. The first of many sighs broke from a dry throat. Seiryuu had just been playing with him. If he had really meant to kill him—
Seiryuu.
Seiryuu was dead.
Black eyes froze open. Neurons stopped. No. No more thinking. Any signal in his mind could be misinterpreted, could become pain. Abandoned training dragged its negligent pupil upward. Goemon was alive. Under contract. Late to work. Any more dawdling would not be tolerated.
What time was it? How much had passed? The fallen assassin struggled to recall what happened. There was rushing air. A titanic slap of water. Chlorine. Heat. Blood. Bullets. Death. His fingers wrapping around metal. The dull, ceaseless thudding of blades larger than his own, pulling him into the sky with the rest of the night's lost souls. Past that…
Someone had bandaged him. Another wrapped him in fresh, warm robes. Even combed through the snarls in his hair. Even in failure, he had been cared for. Helped without request. Loved without reason.
The smell of chlorine and copper was still in his skin.
Up! Up, up, up. Crumpled fabric fell past Goemon's legs. The ronin turned about, brain spinning in multiple directions. This wasn't his bed. It was too plush, too heavily blanketed. The truest of his partners laid atop two pillows. Zantetsuken. He nodded, reassured. His companions truly had taken care of everything. How he deserved any of them…
How Seiryuu thought a mere acquaintance was worth his life…
Goemon shook his head. This was no time to be sentimental. Thinking drew pain, and he was already too sore.
Sword and samurai walked together. Their path did not stretch long. It pulled across matted rugs, wooden beams, into the gleam of sunlight itself. A weary hand protected aching eyes. The sun was just rising. Goemon had not slept in too late. Yet, the sun still burned, angry and demanding against gauze and flesh. There were things to do! Many, many tasks ahead! And Goemon was so slow to do them.
Newspaper crinkled. Tobacco floated through the front room. Both heralded the fire that burned low and blue on the couch. "You're awake."
Goemon lowered his hand. Was Jigen surprised that he was awake? Upset? "I am."
"Not hungry."
"No."
Jigen already knew. He was wise like that. Far wiser than Goemon could ever pretend to be. "There's some water in the kettle on the stove. Left some matcha by it."
"I see."
"Or, there's a bottle of iced tea in the fridge."
Goemon nodded.
A solar glare cut over the top of Jigen's newspaper. "Go drink something."
Well, then. An order. Damned if Jigen didn't know how Goemon worked. Even the softest of his sentences were enough to cut through the scolding in the samurai's mind. Alright. He would get a drink. He could at least do that.
The refrigerator's seal smacked as Goemon opened it. His fingers traced atop the tea container's lid. Other contents twisted his guts. There was fruit-flavored yogurt. Fujiko's. A greasy, propped-open cardboard box. Their pizza from last night. A block of tofu. A half-eaten container of cottage cheese. Dairy, reeking. His stomach, churning from the scent. If he stood there any longer, he was going to–
"Close the door."
Done.
"Come here."
Where else was there to go, really? Their hideout was small. Not the tiniest place that they had ever set up camp, but limited in space. A kitchenette, a bathroom, a living room, two bedrooms. Luxurious, in some parts of the world. Awfully cramped, for four adults. Hell, there wasn't even a television set here. No wonder Jigen had to resort to something as simple as a newspaper for entertainment.
Pages rattled as he turned them. "Sit."
Damn his tired mind. It was too imperceptive, too obedient. Goemon could have sat anywhere. By the kitchenette. On the floor. Even on the sofa across from Jigen. But, no. He just had to park himself on the same couch as the gunman. Goemon tucked himself into the sofa's furthest corner, folding his legs beneath his body. Resting beside Jigen was agreeable enough. He would not take any more of his space than needed. Or his sympathy. Or, his orders, frankly.
Cracking plastic preceded the last of his compliance.
Where strength failed, tea prevailed. It washed away the grit in Goemon's throat, quelling the embers burning just behind his tongue. Nerves fell with his swallowing. Senses began to pool in an emptied mind. He had survived. He was in a safe place. Jigen was here, as perceptive with two eyes as he could be with two thousand. It was all right. Goemon didn't need to hold onto his troubled thoughts any longer.
And yet, they stuck like rocks in a stony stream, bending its flow to their will. "Where's Lupin?"
"Getting supplies." Knowing the thief, that could be anything from groceries to grenades.
"And Fujiko?"
"Dry cleaner's. Apparently, she needs professional help for getting blood out of a qipao." Rattling paper punctuated Jigen's reply. "What a crock of shit. She probably didn't want to do her own damn laundry!"
Another chill flushed through Goemon's face. Well. Perhaps he couldn't take responsibility for everything that troubled Fujiko. She cultivated trouble like weeds. Her ruined dress, though…that was certainly his fault. If not through his own blood, then certainly, by Seiryuu's.
What an awful thing to turn a red dress redder.
Shame turned weary eyes to printed words. More news spilled out from Jigen's paper. Inked truth did little to ease Goemon's mind. The only happy article buzzed about the success of the Sakigake, of hope for Japan's future in astronautics. Others drudged on, sulking about topics like lung cancer and the celebrities it was taking. That was not an article that Jigen read for long, Goemon supposed. There was something about a gas leak in Sweden poisoning a small town. Disturbing. But, most troublesome of all, was the article about Lupin the Third's latest thwarted heist.
Damn it all. How embarrassing it was, seeing his failure clacked out before him. The Tang dynasty dragon statue, resecured. Its lender, Gozo Taniyama, gloating of its successful recovery. Zantetsuken hungered for more than the inked image of that selfish pig splattered before it. More important foes deserved Goemon's attention. If he took any comfort in their loss, it was in Inspector Zenigata's words. Their pursuer was humbled. Chagrined that Lupin got away. Jumping into the fire of his own pyrrhic victory.
Forty-five people were incapacitated. Drugged, as gently as circumstances allowed. That was Lupin's fault, mostly. Although, Goemon bore some blame for that, too.
Four more were dead. Jigen's doing, for three. Damned if they didn't deserve his indignation.
But, the last victim…
"Zenigata has him."
Goemon jolted. Damn it! He was too open—too easy to read. "I see."
"Lupin called him up. Asked how things were going. You know." A roll of Jigen's eyes and two folded air-quotes gave the gunman's opinion about their boss' routine. "Aftercare."
A mirrored grimace shared Goemon's thoughts.
"Pops was sorting out…you know." Casualties. Indeed. "He noticed one was shot from the wrong way."
"Astute." Even a word as small as that was enough to crack Goemon's throat.
"Lupin told him what he knew."
Goemon snorted. That blabbermouth always would.
"He's gonna get Seiryuu back home," Jigen murmured. "Back to his family."
Yes. Of course. Back to the temple of ashes where they all rested. A stone shifted the wrong way in Goemon's mind. It fell down a black cascade, taking the ronin's thoughts with it. His family. That was the company Seiryuu desired. A peace forever unbroken. A reward he had earned in the worst way possible. An entire family stolen away by the same hand.
Shoulder blades folded like wet wings. Plastic crinkled between bandaged fingers. Goemon stared at a knothole in the floor, his gaze unblinking. He had to hold his eyes open, to keep what little grace he had left. Blinking meant disturbing the moisture in his eyes. Tearing the delicate surface membrane of water. Letting it all spill like Seiryuu's blood.
There had been a time in Goemon's life where he had aspired to be something different. Noble, perhaps. Armed, always. On the opposite edge of the sword he still wielded. To be of the line of Goemon Ishikawa—to have his name—meant being the greatest of thieves. To take treasure and lives without hesitation. In days long lost, Goemon would have given anything to live up to his forefather's shadow. His eyes. His tongue. His soul. Everything he was.
He was different now. Reappraised. Sparkling, in new eyes. Worthy, somehow, again. Loved by people in ways he never thought possible.
In attachment, suffering.
Would Seiryuu still want to feel this pain?
Numb flesh paid no heed to the callous palms that collected it. The lightest of pulls felled Goemon like a hollow tree. Long fingers relaxed, plastic thudding to the floor. Tea did not spill. A worse liquid did.
Hiccups broke smooth breathing. Painful embarrassment burned in a long face. Goemon turned his head down, shamed by his shattered guard. Jigen was a worthy rival. The gunman could tear him down faster than his magnum. He'd done so again. Rough skin wiped away what gauze could not hold. More soaked into the crease of the gunman’s pant leg. There was no escaping the torrent of Goemon's tears. No strength to be gained in enduring them.
And yet, Jigen did. "It was like that, huh?"
Goemon had enough dignity to nod through his sobbing.
Rough fingers folded around a dexterous hand. "I get it."
Of course, Jigen did. He had left a battalion of companions buried across hundreds of fields. What right did Goemon have to cry, losing so little in comparison? A burning throat would not let him apologize for the monsoon from his eyes. All he could do was squeeze Jigen's hand.
Weary, wise love turned to foolish promises. "We'll pay him back."
Goemon's question popped out like a fireball. "How?"
Teasing smoke joined his flame. "Our job's not finished, is it?"
No. It wasn't. That was completely Goemon's fault. Damn that stupid dragon statue. Damn Lupin for still wanting it. But, of course, he could never let anything go. He was just as stubborn and foolish as Goemon was. It was what made their friendship—their lives—so difficult and true.
What the hell sort of samurai would he be if he gave up now?
Shadowed eyes found what tears burned red. "It's gonna take a couple more days. But, it should be easy, once we've got everything else up."
"Very well." Maybe Goemon could put the downtime to use. Fix what had failed his friends. "What's the plan?"
"Fujiko's going to weasel her way into Taniyama's company. Bat her eyes. Bug his cars. You know." The gunman's groan floated in an agitated cloud. "The usual."
If anyone could sneak back into such a devious man's shadow, it was indeed Fujiko. Her cleavage alone was a deadly weapon. It was a plummet that even snared Goemon, now and then.
"Once she's got the tracker set, Lupin will go on data monitoring duty," Jigen added. "He's gonna find out where that asshole goes on a daily basis. Pick a place for you to jump him."
A tired brow struggled to pinch itself together. "Me?"
Jigen nodded.
The whole crew had to be stupid to leave this task to him. "I doubt I can take the statue alone."
His sharp-shooting friend saw his mistake well before he did. "This isn't about the statue, Goemon."
Cognition froze a turbulent mind. Goemon rolled his head back, studying what a thick hat's brim hid. It wasn't in Jigen's eyes that the ronin found the truth. It was in the devilish curve of his smile. That dark, evil grin was enough to bring light to Goemon's eyes. Not the piercing, castigating glare of the sun. True acknowledgment. Understanding. Confidence.
Goemon knew what he had to do—what he was actually going to take.
He snapped upright, his nerves hot. "Tonight."
"Not tonight!" Jigen laughed, tapping him on the forehead with his newspaper. "We've got to get that route from Lupin first!"
Oh, yes, that. It was a minor detail, but an important one. "Of course."
"Then, we'll have to see how many guards that dickhead has."
"Fewer than before, thanks to you."
Flattery glowed soft along the cut of Jigen's face. "Maybe I'd like to see you healed up a little bit, too."
Oh. His wounds. What an insignificant detail to fret over. "I can still wield Zantetsuken."
"I know," Jigen agreed. "I'd just rather you didn't have to use your damn teeth this time."
Laughter cracked like lightning in the ronin's raw throat. He accepted that pain. Damn it all. They had been through too much, hadn't they? Infinite deserts and jungles filled with hunters, all seeking Jigen's life. The sea of blood wailing at Goemon's back. Gardens of roses wilted, rejected by an insatiable woman. The hundreds of heists Lupin had planned. The thousands more that they would do. The millions they'd lose, and the billions they'd keep.
When it didn't hurt—when failure couldn't hurt him anymore—
Goemon needed no séance to understand how Seiryuu felt. The ronin already knew.
In the arms of their families, both could rest.