Hi there!

This fic is somewhat of an experiment for me, so I'm not sure if this will
work or not.

This could also fall under the "Underused Characters" challenge. Interpret
it as you will.

Footnotes will be at the end of the piece to explain several of the
references therein.

All characters belong to Marvel, yadda yadda yadda.

!MST_OK, POP_OK.

--

Daisho: Fire on Fire.

by Redhawk

Keniuchio Harada, called the Silver Samurai, stepped out of the
sparsely-populated aircraft, immediately scanning the greeting area for
exits, threats, and opportunities. He quickly saw the 'escort' the local
Yakuza daimyo(1) had seen fit to grace him with, and inwardly he cursed.
The boy was twitchy, irritable, fidgety, and worse of all, half gaijin(2)
in blood. The daimyo clearly sought to dishonor him.

The boy, eyes hidden behind too-dark sunglasses, hair slicked into an
absurd parody of a pompadour, nevertheless managed to greet Keniuchio in
the proper manner. "Lord Harada, I've been expecting you. Allow me to show
you to the car? Your things are being gathered as we speak." he said while
bowing to a nearly absurd depth.

Keniuchio nodded sharply, as was only fitting to a boy of this low a rank.
As he forged his way through the thick mass of people, Keniuchio took some
time to really _look_ at the new Tokyo, and what he saw disgusted him.

Homeless men, sleeping on benches. American-style fast food hucksters at
every intersection. Noisy, rude, insolent young people, with no respect
for themselves or their elders. Even their Japanese was sloppy, fast and
rude. And the _tourists_! Bumping into people, exclaiming loudly in
English and Spanish and all the debased tongues, sticking their noses in
where they were not wanted. How they made him sick, each one of them.

At least the car was fitting for a man of his station, a sleek, elegant
Lexus. The car's smoked windows obscured much of his view of the city
itself, and Keniuchio was secretly grateful. ~Tokyo has changed. Japan has
changed, and we have lost our way.~ he thought morosely, during the long
trip to the oyabun's compound.

Finally, just as Keniuchio's joss(3) took a turn for the worse and the
skies opened up with their full might, the car arrived at its destination
-- a old Tokugawa-era castle converted into a single luxury home. A nearly
criminal waste of space in such a cramped nation, but wealth and power do
have their priviledges. He himself lived in a building much like this one.

The driver procured an umbrella, and nary a drop of rain mussed
Keniuchio's immaculate clothing during the short trek to the front door.
Inside, the daimyo himself greeted Keniuchio, a powerful honor from such a
powerful man. He bowed deeply to the Old Man, a fraction of a second
before the Old Man bowed to him.

"Come in, Keniuchio-san. My home is yours, for as long as you do require
it." he said.

Keniuchio bowed again to the old man. "You have my gratitude." he replied
with some real warmth, then followed the old man into the depths of the
building. Inside, there was most every sort of decadent pleasure a man
could possibly want. A fully stocked bar kept the liquor flowing, both
American and Japanese in origin. A strong herbal smell wafted across
Keniuchio's senses, as well a deeper, more sour odor, and he knew that
both the tears of the poppy and the fragrant weed were both being
consumed.

Neither vice appealed to him, however, the plethora of beautiful Asian and
American women in the room rather did. All were dressed as geisha(4), the
courtesans of old, and each played her part brilliantly. Grinning,
Keniuchio allowed himself to be escorted deeper into the room. Pleasure
before business...

Later, much later, Keniuchio kneeled before a low table, three other men
of power kneeling around it as well. The one to Keniuchio's left was the
underboss for the Clan Yashida itself. The one in the center was
Keniuchio's host, and the man seated to Keniuchio's right was the Chief
Constable for the Hokkaido Prefecture. 

The underboss spoke first, as the lowest-ranking man present. "Keniuchio,
you were brought here this day for a reason." Then the constable spoke.
"You are needed to serve your country, Keniuchio-san," the thin man said,
sweat noticably dripping from his face. Then the oyabun himself spoke.
"You will meet Yashida Shiro at the School of the Foremost Warrior at noon
tomorrow, where this issue will be decided. You will go there to honor our
request, and for the benefit of all Nippon(5)."

Keniuchio, scowling inwardly, merely bowed to the three men. "It shall be
done."

--

Harada Keniuchio stomped into the ancient dojo(6), bowing as is only
proper to honor the hall, the spirits, and his own martial ancestry. The
man who invited him here, Yashida Shiro, stood at the opposite end of the
dojo, limbering himself and centering his ki(7). 

Keniuchio scowled at the smaller man, but quickly schooled his expression
as he lifted the honor blade of the Clan Yashida from his carrying case
and hung it proudly from mounting hooks designed specifically to hold such
a magnificent blade. He bowed to the blade, whispering a quick prayer of
strength and victory to Budddha.

Keniuchio settled into a neutral jodan(8) stance, weight mostly on his
front leg, back leg locked. He stared at everything and nothing, a concept
his old shihan(9) would have referred to as "zanshin." Here in the
no-mind, everything was made clear without effort, without thought.

Keniuchio strived for zanshin in all things, and this was no exception.
Across the tatami mat paced Shiro Yashida, the one the iteki(10) called
Sunfire. He was most certainly _not_ in zanshin. He wasted his energies,
telegraphing his every intention as soon as he conceived of it.

A rush of air, a screamed kiai(11) yell, and Shiro launched forward
towards Keniuchio. A nigh-impossible fluid motion to one side, a simple
tai sabaku(12) shift, and Shiro flew through the air, uncontrolled,
unstoppable, his rush denied a target.

The crash that resounded through the ancient dojo was almost enough to
bring a smile to Keniuchio's face. Shiro, for his part, leapt to his feet
with the grace of a hunting cat, and assumed his own combat stance. 

Shiro slid forward, using a circular footwork Keniuchio knew well. ~He
thinks to use jiu-jitsu against me?~ he thought contemptously, and shifted
fluidly into a simple grab, aiming for the open seam of Shiro's gi(13).

In return, Shiro grabbed for Keniuchio's grabbing arm, seeking to apply
pressure to the vulnerable elbow joint. Keniuchio let the grab dissolve,
preferring instead to use his other arm to perform a vicious liver atemi
with the stiffened fingertips of his hand. 

Shiro twisted out of the way, abandoning his own attempted arm-bar in the
process. Both men spoke not a word, and neither took their eyes from the
other for an instant. All that could be heard was the whisper of bare feet
on tatami, and the cold snap of their gis. 

Shiro's front foot twisted just slightly in preparation, but it was enough
to shout warnings to Keniuchio as Shiro launched into the air, twisting
his body around into an enormously powerful jumping turn kick. Keniuchio,
for his part, merely slid to one side, well away from the lethally
scything kick. Keniuchio then darted in with a raised-knuckle strike to
Shiro's momentarily-exposed ribs, eliciting a grunt from the smaller man,
no more.

Shiro recovered in a flash, launching a blind kick to Keniuchio's face
that connected with enough force to snap his head back like it was mounted
on a spring. In the second it took Keniuchio's vision to clear, Shiro had
once again taken the offensive, this time keeping to a simple
jab/punch/kick combination. 

"BANZAI!" Shiro screamed, his punches and kicks all exacting their share
of damage on his hated and revered foe. Keniuchio was irrevocably being
worked back onto his heels, unable to obtain proper balance and distance
for an effective counterattack. Always his smaller foe would come inside,
to work his vulnerable torso. Keniuchio dove off to one side to avoid a
low hooking kick that would have crumpled his kneecap like tinfoil had it
connected, and drew himself back into a proper stance, most of his weight
forward once again. 

As Shiro approached once again, with murderous intent shimmering in his
black eyes, Keniuchio strove once again for zanshin, working through his
pain, through his suddenly-heavy limbs. As Shiro closed into the outside
of Keniuchio's range, Keniuchio launched a darting strike aimed for
Shiro's eyes, designed to make him waste energy and motion to block the
strike. When Shiro, predictably, blocked the strike skyward with a simple
rising block, Keniuchio stepped forward with a fluid shuffle-step, a
lesson he'd learned well from his devotion to the sword, and just as if he
wielded his beloved katana, drove a fist into Shiro's solar plexus,
blasting the air from the smaller man's lungs.

Shiro stumbled backwards, off-balance and reeling, and that was the only
invitation Keniuchio needed. He stepped forward relentlessly, always with
his kendo shuffling forward steps, and with each step forward came another
punishing attack. A reverse punch to the head. A reverse knifehand to the
throat. A upset punch to the bowels. Each one had Shiro reeling, or
forcing him to continue to retreat.

Shiro, in an act of desparation to escape the beating he was receiving at
Keniuchio's hands, sidestepped from Keniuchio's line of attack, and
launched a low crescent kick that landed just behind Keniuchio's leading
knee. The knee crumpled, and with it, Keniuchio. Shiro grinned in apparent
victory, although he was not so far gone in self-congratulation as to step
in grasping range of the downed man.

"Sono teido ka?"(14) he mocked, dancing from one ball of the foot to the
other. "Ore no buutsu ni arau inu mo ga kanarazu ni tatakaitsuzukeru
chikara o furuiokosu hazu'n da zo!"(15)

Keniuchio easily flipped to his feet, ignoring what must surely have been
screaming pain in his right knee, and threw a quick, inelegant, but
utterly effective throat-strike that narrowly avoided crushing Shiro's
voicebox for good. "Be silent, dog." Keniuchio panted.

As Shiro reeled, gasping desparately for air, Keniuchio magmanimously
allowed him to recover, settling himself into a kneeling position on the
other side of the tatami, his back to Shiro. His eyes slipped closed as
his mind sought once again the zanshin, the no-mind.

Shiro's bellowed warcry and the slap of his bare feet on the tatami
provided all the warning Keniuchio needed, as he leapt to his feet, and
without turning around, thrust his leg backwards in a powerful mule kick
just as Shiro's charge came within range. A grunt of pain and a shock that
nearly knocked him over told Keniuchio all he needed to know as he spun
around gracefully, to a doubled-over Shiro.

"Impulsive." Keniuchio commented drily. "It will be your undoing." 

Shiro, between sucking gasps for air, barked out "You dare to lecture me
on impulsiveness, yakuza dog? You whose numerous defeats at the hands of
American superheroes are the disgrace of our nation?"

Keniuchio began to spit back an angry retort about Shiro's involvement
with the gaijin Wolverine and the X-Men, but bit back his harsh words.
Wolverine, although a crazy iteki berserker, had shown his own crude form
of honor, almost worthy of the Honor Blade of the Clan Yashida.

A blade that by rights should have been his. He carried it now, true, but
it took the death of a true samurai, a _woman_ no less, for him to pick up
the blade.

That thought kicked off a spark of revelations in Keniuchio's mind, a most
unwelcome train of thought indeed. His indentured servitude to the
Mandrill, at first a tie of honor, quickly sinking into depravity and
loss. Defeat after defeat at the hands of one gaijin after another. The
crude jokes his appearance and presence generated in the perceptions of
those same iteki.

With a flash of revelation that left his mind reeling, he stumbled across
the Truth. He'd been more of an embarrassment to both himself, his clan,
and his nation than a benefit.

Keniuchio backed up without thinking, unwittingly giving his opponent time
and space to recover. "You are correct." he admitted, a shocking
revelation for a man of his fierce pride. 

Shiro could barely contain his gasping note of surprise. Re-assuming his
mask of quiet concentration he quietly said "Then perhaps you will think
upon that which I have asked you to do? Join me. Join _us_. Promote the
Japanese nation in addition to keeping it clear of iteki paranormal
influences."

Keniuchio snorted loudly. "You, who know what I am and what I seek, ask me
to join you in the defense of our beloved nation?"

Shiro nodded. "I know you are Yakuza, as well you know of my Clan's
involvement with ninja. Together, we can bring together the outcasts and
the unlucky ones(16) to better us all."

Keniuchio paused for a moment, thinking hard. "I shall do as you ask." he
stated quietly, before bowing to Shiro, a bow of respect and honor. Shiro,
deeply honored, bowed back at precisely the same angle, held it for
precisely the same amount of time as did the larger man.

A grin spread across Keniuchio's face like a freight-train, as he clapped
the smaller man on the back. "Time to seal our bargain in the old ways,
neh? Tonight, we drink!"

Shiro grinned back at the elder man, before walking across the tatami,
bowing to it as is only proper when he stepped off the mat, before heading
for the things he had brought. "I should warn you, Kenuichio-san, my fires
burn off alcohol quickly."

"Then we shall drown your fires quickly!" roared back Keniuchio, before
lapsing silent in a quiet respect. His katana, the thousand-year-old honor
blade of his House, lay on the wall mounting, proud and as sharp as death
itself. Keniuchio bowed to his blade deeply before lifting it reverently
from the rack, and slipping it inside his specially-designed carrying
case.

Keniuchio grinned at Shiro, as both men headed for the sliding door that
led to the world outside the dojo. "I know this place, where the sake is
hot, and the women hotter..."

Shiro merely grinned back.

<fin>


Footnotes:

(1)daimyo - a feudal Lord in ancient Japan. Equivalent to a Duke in the
European feudal system.
(2)gaijin - "foreigner" in Japanese. Not a polite term.
(3)joss - "luck" or "fortune".
(4)geisha - a "woman of pleasure". Trained to entertain in _all_ ways.
Japanese place no stigma on geisha -- the position was considered an
honorable one for a lady. A geisha was no common prostitute, but could
recite poetry, plot strategy, perform several martial arts, spy, and was
conversant in culture and art.
(5)Nippon - "Japan" in Japanese. Refers not only to the physical country,
but the culture and the spirit of the nation
(6)Dojo - "training hall" in Japanese. A place where one goes to learn.
(7)Ki - "spirit" in Japanese. Roughly analogous to "life-force" 
(8)Jodan - a neutral stance in the martial arts, 70% of one's weight on
one's front leg, front leg bent, back leg straight. Hands are open and
held about chest-level. 
(9)Shihan - "grand master" in Japanese. A step about "sensei", which means
Master or "teacher". Shihan, in the martial arts, are 5th Dan or greater. 
(10)Iteki - "Barbarian" in Japanese. Not a nice word at _all_. Considered
to be quite the base insult.
(11)kiai - a shout used in the martial arts to focus one's ki and tighten
one's muscles in preparation of striking/taking a strike
(12)tai sabaku - literally "body movement"
(13)gi - the jacket/pants combination worn in the martial arts. Exact
styles vary by the art being practiced.
(14)Sono teido ka? - literally, "is that your limit?"
(15)"Ore no buutsu ni arau inu mo ga kanarazu ni tatakaitsuzukeru chikara
o furuiokosu hazu'n da zo!" - "Even the dog who cleans my boots could
surely summon up the strength to keep fighting!"
(16)the outcasts and the unlucky ones - In feudal Japan, ninja were
founded by masterless Samurai to be spies, assassins, thieves, and to
perform aspects of warfare that the strict bushido of the samurai would
not allow them to perform. The unlucky ones is a reference to the Yakuza,
as a "ya-ku-za" ("Born to Lose")is a losing toss in a popular dice game in
Japan.


--
Erik Larson -- redhawk@deeptht.armory.com

"There is something feeble and a little contemptable about a man 
who cannot face the perils of life without the help of comfortable 
myths. Almost inevitably some part of him is aware that they are 
myths and that he believes them only because they are comforting.  
But he dare not face this thought! Moreover, since he is aware, 
however dimly, that his opinions are not real, he becomes furious 
when they are disputed."
      [Bertrand Russell, "Human Society in Ethics and Politics"]