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“Do you have eyes on the cargo?” Kiriko murmurs into her earpiece.
There’s a brief pause on the other end before Sakura’s voice crackles to life. “Not yet, but we’re almost in position. Less guards than usual.”
Kiriko’s eyes narrow at Sakura’s last statement. They’ve sabotaged enough of these Hashimoto operations that she’s mostly memorized their patrol patterns, numbers, and layouts. For precious cargo, like the contraband they’re trying to sink into the Kanezaka River tonight, she would have expected more men, not less.
Beneath the cover of nightfall, Kiriko surveys the alley that leads toward the dock from her post atop a three-story building. As the most mobile of the Yōkai, she always volunteers for the most dangerous part of the job: scouting for armed Hashimoto and running interference. The last patrol unit passed by over five minutes ago, and hasn’t yet looped back around. She’s supposed to be knocking them all out on their way back in order to give the all-clear for the Yōkai to start the disposal.
Sakura’s voice comes through the earpiece. “We’re in position. All-clear?”
Kiriko’s jaw tightens. The patrol isn’t anywhere to be seen. “Not yet. Something’s off about this patrol. I’m going to need to take a closer look.”
Kiriko can hear sudden apprehension in Sakura’s voice. “Should we call it off?”
“Hold your positions for now.”
Before Kiriko has a chance to reposition herself, she hears the distinct sound of two sharpened blades clashing. It’s coming from the freight truck bay, on the opposite side of her location relative to the other Yōkai. Kiriko immediately heads toward the sound, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.
When she arrives at the source of the sound, Kiriko is stunned by what she sees. Below, on the pavement, there’s a lone figure surrounded by the Hashimoto patrol unit she has been looking for. The man is dressed in dark nondescript streetwear, bedecked in a large kasa-style hat. He is wielding what looks like a chained sickle in one hand.
One of the Hashimoto appears to have lost his sword in the earlier scuffle. She spies the errant sword on the ground, the faint moonlight glinting off the poorly-maintained blade.
From her vantage point, Kiriko can’t exactly make out what the Hashimoto are saying but it’s soon clear from their movements they plan to strike. The mysterious interloper is clearly outnumbered, five to one.
“Found the patrol unit,” Kiriko starts, “but we’ve got a party crasher.”
“What?” Sakura utters back, sounding wholly confused. “Our side or theirs?”
Another Hashimoto sword goes flying into the air and skids to a stop against the pavement.
“Ours, I think,” Kiriko replies uncertainly. “Wears a kasa, wields a sickle. Ring any bells?”
“There’s been some chatter, but I haven’t personally looked into it,” Sakura begins hesitantly. “Someone of that description has been disrupting the Hashimoto neighborhood patrols and messing with their shipments. Started a few weeks ago.” A pause. “I don’t know anything else.”
The unspoken meaning of Sakura's words are clear. You need to be careful; we don’t know who this is or what they want.
Suddenly, there’s a flash of black metal and Kiriko’s blood runs cold. A gun.
She’s not about to let someone die on her watch.
“Sakura, you’ve got the all-clear.”
“Wait, are you engaging?” Sakura exclaims, horrified. “Don’t, Kiriko!”
“Have to keep ‘em busy for ya,” Kiriko replies, a smile in her voice.
“Wait until we get there!” Sakura pleads.
A gunshot goes off, icing the blood in Kiriko’s veins.
“No time,” she says, cutting off the comms. “I’m going in.”
In a wisp of blue smoke, Kiriko disappears off the rooftop.
“Aren’t you a little in over your head?” Kiriko muses aloud as she materializes in the center of the fight, back to back with her teleportation target.
She feels his body startle at the sudden contact, but to his credit, he remains focused on the fight and maintains his defensive stance.
Before the Hashimoto can react, Kiriko disarms one of the thugs in front of her with a flick of her kunai and reaches for another on her thigh holster.
He looks over his shoulder. Beneath the large-brimmed kasa and the pitch-dark shadow it casts over his face, she can’t even tell if his gaze is directed at her or the Hashimoto across from her.
“I think I can handle it.” His voice ghosts over her ear, crystal-clear in spite of the golden mask on his face. It’s cool, aloof, and oddly cheeky.
Before she can reply, Kiriko watches in surprise as he jolts forward at an inhuman speed. In his place floats an eerie-looking paper doll talisman.
The Hashimoto closest to her releases a battle cry, and she snaps her attention back to the fight. She pins the hapless fool to the wall, and delivers a swift kick to his temple to render him unconscious.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spies her temporary partner in crime quickly dispatching another Hashimoto by chaining the poor fellow to the wheel of a freight truck. Still, they cling desperately to their firearm and attempt to fire off a shot.
“I don’t think so,” he drawls, his free hand grabbing the gun by its muzzle.
In a flash, he teleports to the exact location of his paper doll. The stolen gun clatters to the ground.
Kiriko finds herself begrudgingly impressed. Still, there’s work to be done.
She waits a beat for an approaching assailant to get within reach, leaps into the air and roundhouse kicks him in the face. They go flying several feet before hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
Around the corner, a pair of Hashimoto appear brandishing their weapons.
“We’ve got company,” she announces.
“Then let’s wrap this up quick,” he fires back.
Now that she knows he can fend for himself, Kiriko doesn’t hold back.
The two of them make quick work of the remaining gangsters. In a few short minutes, the fight is effectively over.
Kiriko takes a moment to survey her work. Bit louder and messier than I’m used to, but hey, at least the job’s done.
She turns around to address the newcomer. “Nice moves back there.”
“You’re not too bad yourself,” he responds. His voice sounds strangely strained, and Kiriko watches in confusion as he sinks down to one knee.
Her eyes catch on a small but growing puddle of blood at his feet. She follows the trail up his right arm and finds an enormous gash across his shoulder. The sheer amount of blood puts a lump in her throat.
She rushes to his side and kneels in front of him. “You’re hurt,” she says quietly. Her eyes attempt to search his face, but he keeps his head low and eyes averted. Despite this, she can hear his shallow, labored breathing.
Kiriko produces an ofuda and places it on the wound.
“What are you–” The wary edge in his voice quickly disappears and is replaced with a gasp of surprise.
A strong golden glow appears on the wound, and his skin knits itself together. Whole, unmarred, healed. He lifts his right arm and flexes it in shock.
“Feels like sunlight, huh?” Kiriko smiles. She’s been told before that her ofuda have an otherworldly warmth. The rest of the Yōkai prefer it over the itchy sensation of being healed by nanites.
“Thanks,” he says at last, looking up at her. There’s something off about his voice this time; it’s softer, huskier. “I…wasn’t expecting that.”
Finally, he’s making eye contact with her. His eyes are a unique color she almost can’t place. She’s reminded of a pond she used to frequent in Hanamura, near one of her favorite shrines. Verdant with notes of blue.
Of one thing she’s certain, she’s never seen him before. Able to examine him up close–those eyes, that shock of silver hair–she comes up completely blank on who he is. She prides herself on recognizing everyone in Kanezaka, yet it’s obvious from his attire that he’s taken great pains to conceal his identity. He must not be from around here at all.
Who are you? Why are you fighting the Hashimoto? The questions form on her lips, but a familiar shout silences her.
“Hey!” Ryota yells, appearing around the corner with the rest of her crew following close behind. “Job’s done!” They run over, closing the distance.
Whatever softness she uncovered in him quickly vanishes at the arrival of her friends. His lean frame tenses and he quickly gets to his feet. He’s a lot taller than she initially realized.
“They’re with me,” Kiriko explains, but it’s too late. He’s already guarded and closed off.
Ryota cocks his head. “Oi, who’s this guy?”
To her dismay, the person in question offers no answer.
Kiriko carefully studies the expressions of her comrades–what she can see of them, at least. Every single one of them are regarding the silver-haired vigilante with suspicion. There isn’t a single spark of recognition from among them.
Chikasa, standing furthest back, catches her eye and very carefully shakes her head. It’s barely discernable, but Kiriko understands it implicitly. She’s responsible for keeping them all safe. As much as she wants to, she can’t reveal who she is, who they are. They’ve risked too much already. Any moment now, the next Hashimoto patrol unit will be arriving and wondering where the original group went.
Kiriko wordlessly signals for the Yōkai to disengage and fall back.
Nobuto nods, hand rummaging into his coat. In moments, a smoke bomb engulfs the area in thick, dark smoke. One by one, she hears her friends’ footsteps fading into the distance.
Kiriko takes a step toward the smoke.
“Wait!” the masked figure cries.
She half-turns to face him, awaiting an explanation, but when it doesn’t come, she steps into the smoke and vanishes.
When it clears, the Yōkai are long gone.
That’s gotta be them. Mizuki removes his kasa and swipes his sweat-soaked hair back. It worked; it really worked. The Yōkai finally took the bait.
He takes a deep breath, then swallows thickly. Why don’t I feel relieved?
Unnerved, Mizuki rubs the goosebumps rising along his right arm, hoping to calm himself down. It must be the spirits again, he tells himself. I did what I had to do.