She honored her mother at sunrise. She honored her father when the wind raged across the western sea. She honored her grandparents, Izanagi and Izanami, and the eight children that they bore together. She honored her grandfather's mourning that had given her mother life.
The shrine was her sanctuary, the grove, the garden, the reflecting pool. Inside the ancient walls and gates, the towering, bustling city disappeared and the old ways were not forgotten. She drew comfort from the balance of man and nature, the still pool barely rippled by the stream of water falling from the roof, the tended trees whose perfume blossomed early each spring, the carefully placed rocks that grew mossy with lichens, the grain of the worked stone in the temple wall, the red pillars at its entrance and the sweeping arch between. Unity and purpose from another place, another source, another time.
The people who made their devotions here thought she was the spirit of the shrine. They floated candles upon the still waters. They left tiny, rolled scrolls tucked between the stones like prayers, often with just a name designated for a blessing or a curse. Her friends thought her a kind spirit, her enemies a demon. Her uncles, Ren and Koan, had taught her the way of the warrior, the way of the sword.
She knew that Neko, the lucky stray, was the true spirit of the shrine. She only cared for her as much as anyone could care for a wild and independent spirit. She had found her among the overgrown ruins with a broken paw when her spirit had been awakened by the candles, and tended her until she recuperated. She decided to stay, to ensure the shrine wasn't desecrated again, a spirit of justice disguised as an ordinary girl named Kami.
Outside, they thought she was a street waif, another urchin raised in the feral Western wilderness her ancient city had become. Just beyond the garden walls, modern glass and steel shrines dedicated to yen and Euro and dollar loomed over her. Only Ronin Software, whose headquarters her shrine was nestled beside, sheltered her, not having lost touch completely with the ancient ways. Each morning, they sent their custodial staff to ensure the shrine was clean and well maintained. Each evening, they left food for her and Neko. On holidays, they brought clothing and gifts, most of which she donated to the poor as she already had everything she needed. In return, they were content to bask in the glow the rejuvenated shrine cast their way and the luck that Neko seemed to bring.
Today Kami hoped to replay their kindness. Recently, the scrolls in the wall were dominated by a single name: Jimmi Tens. He and his ritually tattooed street clan were no longer content to terrorize just the corporate invaders. Now, he extorted the poor, conscripting street orphans into his illicit enterprises. He coerced the boys into becoming runners and lookouts. The girls, he merely rented or sold. The corporations turned a blind eye. They found it easier to trim their profits to pay for protection and purchase underage prostitutes for their parties than to get into a street battle with a group well acquainted with the tactics of violence. All but Ronin Software, whose extended corporate family were beginning to pay a heavy price for their moral and ethical stance.
Jimmi Tens used to come around with candles. For a while, he had sheltered her like a young uncle protecting his orphaned niece. When she'd first settled, he had helped her clear out the vagrants whose only interest in the shrine was as a public bath and bathroom. When some of the drunks had threatened her, a gun had appeared and he'd taught her how to shoot it. He found the image of a grubby back alley girl pointing a 9mm at a street thug and instructing him to "say, 'Hello, Kitty'" irresistibly amusing. When she'd needed to see the priests and city officials to register the shrine as reoccupied, he'd loaned her his Kawasaki Ninja to get around the city. He used to joke that she liked to feel something powerful and throbbing between her legs. He would never find out. She hadn't realized that even then he was like all the others, that his only agenda was to frustrate his enemies and increase his own power. He had already become alienated from the ways above.
Kami had never truly needed his help. He had been arrogant to think so. Now he dared to threaten not only the people under her protection but Neko. A week ago, one of his minions had the audacity to graffiti a hanging cat in white spray paint outside her garden gate. That act had elevated him from an annoyance to a problem that needed to be solved. When that demonstration hadn't provoked her compliance, he'd escalated.
She gazed down at his handiwork again. She could see the suffering, the depravity. The blood had darkened to rusty brown, staining the bright red gates of the shrine in small rivulets. She had had to borrow a hammer from the Ronin maintenance station, waving the workers away when they'd asked if she needed help. Gingerly, she had removed each of the four nails, extracting one from each paw. She prayed the creature was dead when she had been placed there, but suspected otherwise. Thankfully, by the time Kami found her, she had joined her ancestors. At first, she had thought the poor creature was Neko. Jimmi had chosen a gray tiger, a stray of similar size with similar markings to serve as his final warning.
He had defiled the gateway to the garden to send her a message. She understood that message now, though it wasn't the one he'd intended. She knew what she had to do. He wanted her to know that she'd outlived her usefulness to him. Unlike the sword of his ancestors that he revered, this one had two edges. He was no longer a protector of the shrine. He had sworn an oath. He had strayed from the way of heaven. He would learn what that betrayal meant. The spirits might be sleeping but that didn't mean they would forgo payment.
She knew he was trying to provoke her, to get her to leave her ancient sanctuary and reenter the modern world. In the seat of her power, she knew she was safe, that she could not be harmed. Out there, she was vulnerable just like any other girl. But she couldn't risk the damage Jimmi could do to Neko or the shrine. He thought of her as traditional, bound by the old ways. That would be his mistake. Heaven spoke in many voices. Most days those voices were like a choir singing in harmony. Some days they sang with a slight dissonance, like the J-pop girl bands she'd come to love.
After she'd buried the cat, she exchanged her traditional attire for that of errant schoolgirl, torn black stockings, stained plaid skirt, dingy white blouse, somewhere between punk Lolita and the pre-delinquent look. She gathered her long, black hair and tied it in a ponytail. Just above the ribbon she slashed it short and diagonal with a straight razor, an ancient sign of mourning that would help her blend in. Outside the gates, she would be hard to distinguish from the street girls and alley strays she had grown up with. She would challenge Jimmi on his own territory, defeat him at his own game.
Kami unrolled her spare sleeping mat, uncovering the pistol concealed within. It had appeared at the shrine just after the shooting involving a young anime enthusiast. The police had never identified a cause or suspect in that Otaku murder despite the weeks of coverage in the local and national press. She suspected the handgun was connected to Jimmi somehow. The pistol was an anodized pink 9mm with a Hello Kitty emblem embedded in the handgrip. A custom piece out of Hong Kong, unless she missed her guess. A quality weapon someone paid a high commission to have crafted, and a higher one to have smuggled in. What guilt was associated with it, she did not know, but she intended to redeem it.
She rummaged through the most recent pile of donations until she found the disposable cell phone, one she knew had nearly an hour remaining on its prepaid limit. She made certain it had the ability to send and receive pictures as well as texts and voice. She also found a woman's makeup kit, the compact type some of the female executives donated for the local women's shelter.
Next, she went to the stash of prayers on parchment, the names that had been tightly rolled and slipped into cracks in the wall. She had kept a special pile for Jimmi Tens to serve as a reminder. The one she was looking for was right on top, yesterday's addition to what could be patched together into a rather long list. The difference was that she knew whose hand had drawn the calligraphy of his naming symbols on this one, knew that hand held no stain of enabling him. The characters were perfect, with a slight flourish that spoke of a young girl's script.
With the cell phone, she flashed a picture of the parchment against the flagstones of the temple. There was no point in disguising where it had been taken. Jimmi would know from the parchment who had sent it and what she intended to do. Kami was counting on his reaction. She knew after his demonstration that he'd have his soldiers watching the shrine. If she timed it right, she could use them to allow her to get closer to him.
She checked the clock on the cell phone. Nearly time. She'd have to hurry now. Quickly, she donned the red skirt and white blouse of a shrine maiden over her other clothing. She pulled the white stockings over the black ones, and slipped on the red sandals. She pulled her hair back, and tied the ponytail she had cut off into the traditional red and white scarf. Then she pulled the small, white mantle over her head and settled it onto her shoulders. She straightened the entire ensemble so she would look like one of the mikos who sometimes came to assist her.
She glanced at the cell phone clock before stuffing it, along with the makeup, into the smallest of the three zippered compartments in the pink, camo-patterned backpack she'd selected. The handgun, she slid into the mid-sized compartment just behind it. She placed a pair of more contemporary low, black boots into the large, main compartment.
Neko rubbed against Kami's leg and reached up with a paw to lightly tap it. She squatted down and scratched behind Neko's ears, then under her chin, which drew out loud and gravelly purring. "I have to go outside for a while," Kami told her. "Yes, it's time. Stay out of sight while I'm gone. Hide if anyone unfamiliar comes inside. And no chasing the koi while I'm away." She stooped down even farther on hands and knees, almost in supplication. Neko rubbed along her face, tickling her nose with her whiskers, before disappearing silently into the grove. Kami hoped she would be safe. Neko would be vulnerable if she failed.
Kami picked up the backpack and clutched it to her chest under the white shoulder mantle. This would be the tricky part. She would only have a minute to cross without being intercepted. Instead of heading for the shrine's main entrance that opened onto the street, she shuffled toward the back gate, the one that led to a side entrance off of Ronin Software's main lobby, the one employees sometimes used at lunch to make their devotions which would start soon. She hated the single thong sandals. How did women ever get around in them? She supposed that was the point once upon a time.
As quickly as the sandals allowed, she shuffled across the open space between the temple grounds and the Ronin tower. She kept her head slightly down and her eyes forward, yet her peripheral vision caught the two street thugs in stylish sunglasses smoking cigarettes and watching the main entrance to the shrine. As she neared the glass door into the office building, one of them nudged the other and nodded in her direction. By the time they started toward her, the white gloved security officer stationed in the lobby opened the door, sending a wicked glare in their direction. As she nodded to guard, she saw the pair peel back the other way. They would have to hike the long way around the block to intercept her at the plaza by the Ronin tower's main entrance. They wouldn't hurry, thinking her dress and sandals would slow her.
Once inside the lobby, Kami quickly bowed to the security guard, who winked at her in recognition. She ducked into the sheltered alcove by his station. Out of sight of the employees in the lobby, she quickly tore off her traditional attire, revealing the more modern, younger clothing she had gathered from the castoffs in her charity pile. She removed the black half-boots from the backpack and crammed her feet into them without bothering to tie the laces, then balled up the mantle and scarf with the remnants of her hair into the skirt and blouse and stuffed them into the pack. She mussed her hair to give it the right look. Her makeup would have to wait. She slung the pink camo backpack across one shoulder and strode through the lobby, looking like an executive's wayward daughter who was late for school. None of the busy employees gave her a second glance.
She glanced out the main doors of the lobby as she approached them. The city bus was pulling up to the stop just down the street, right on time. She slowed her pace a fraction as she saw people queue up to get onboard, gauging the distance. She'd run for the bus just as the last person ascended the steps. The driver would wait only a few seconds, even for a scrambling latecomer, the only compromise between an innately polite society and a transit system that prided itself as always running on time.
The last man was boarding just as she cleared the lobby doors. She ran for the bus, careful not to trip over her untied shoes. The two thugs appeared around the opposite corner, but paid her no mind. She reached the bus just as the door was starting to close. A quick bang saw it reopen. She scrambled aboard and grabbed a ticket. Outside, Jimmi's enforcers were milling about the plaza in front of the Ronin tower. When a security guard stepped out the main door to confront them, they split up, going different directions around the block, not seeming to notice the bus pulling away.
She headed toward one of empty seats to catch her breath, wondering if the pair would figure out that she was the girl who had sprinted for the bus right in front of them. By the time they did, it probably wouldn't matter. She sat down as far away from the other passengers as she could and pulled out the cell phone.
First, she entered the phone's menu and set it to answer directly to voicemail. Then, she loaded the picture she'd taken into a blank text message and sent it to Jimmi Tens' mobile phone. He wouldn't recognize the calling number, but he would be curious. She knew he couldn't resist an enclosure from a strange caller, especially to his private number, one he went to great lengths to keep out of the phonebooks of all but the closest associates. Within a few minutes, his street warden would be calling to inform him that she had slipped away from the surveillance at the shrine. Then he would understand that she was coming for him.
She knew Jimmi would put a trace on the phone. Not many people knew he had that capability, but it was easy enough to hack into the NTT database to check on a number. Mothers and fathers did it legally all the time. It was a feature on most phones now. All he had to do was input a bogus security string to take him through the backdoor the police used. Then he could track her phone as long is it was on.
Queuing up the photo once again, this time to load it onto the Internet, she sent it to a special Flickr group she'd created. That upload would generate an automated text message informing all the members of the group there had been an update. She had recruited a small army of keitai, crowdsourcing her own surveillance needs to the children of the mobile phone culture. The message would let them know to start tracking Jimmi Tens, flashing pictures of him discretely with their cell phones wherever he went. They would post those images to her Flickr group. From there, she would know exactly where he was. All she had to do was wait, and eventually, he would come to her.
Oh, and ditch the phone where someone was bound to find it, someone who would use the remaining minutes rather than turn it in. Somewhere like right here on the bus. She scanned the other riders to make sure no member of the green uniformed Smile-Manner Squadron was present. Luckily, there were none. Most of the respectable people were at work by now, as were their children. Whoever picked up the phone was likely to use it. That would draw off Jimmi's minions and bodyguards.
Finally, she returned to the phone's features and reset all the personal data, as well as the log of all the calls in or out. A temporary measure that would buy her time once it was tracked down. She then closed the phone and carefully tucked it between the cushions of the seat, just barely peeking out. She wanted to make sure none of her neighbors were helpful in pointing out she had left it behind. With any luck, whoever discovered it would use it or sell it. At worst, it would be turned into the driver and move around the city with the bus.
With that done, she fished out the small makeup kit from her backpack and began applying the rest of her disguise. Dark eyeliner, heavy mascara, exaggerated eye shadow, bright lipstick. She could sense her fellow passengers watching her out of the corner of their eyes with disapproval, but she didn't care. That meant they were less likely to inform her about the phone should they spot it, since she had broken one of the unspoken rules of bus etiquette. It fit perfectly with her image of a bratty executive's daughter.
When she finished, she looked up to find her stop approaching. As the bus slowed, she sashayed forward, slipped her ticket into the reader and dropped the correct change into the receptacle by the driver, all without making eye contact or acknowledging anyone, pouting slightly the entire time. By trying to draw attention, she ensured she would be less noticed, one of the quirks of modern Japanese society.
She changed busses several times after that, hopping from one to another without much thought of their route or destination, just taking the first available so she didn't have to stand around very long. Her meandering path sketched a modern line drawing of a Japanese character through the city as seen from above. There was a more direct route to her travels, but she wanted to make certain her trail was obscure, just in case. Half an hour later she started paying attention to moving closer to her eventual destination.
From the final bus stop, Kami turned down a well-trafficked side alley. The city was still alive and crowded though not like rush hour when the sidewalks would be packed. Digital advertising brightly lit up the street even against the sun. Deeper down the overshadowed alley, store signs and advertising cast an almost psychedelic range of blinking yellows, greens and reds. Not quite seedy, so it wouldn't attract any of Jimmi's watchers who might be out. Reputable and slightly touristy but off the beaten track. The pedestrian alley opened into a small plaza between the looming buildings. She was near the corporate downtown not far from Ronin Software, on the edge of Jimmi's territory. Were she to look up, which only tourists would, she would see a small square of blue sky above. Instead, she headed for a narrow staircase between the shops at the back of the plaza, then up them to the Internet café.
Inside, she traded cash for a prepaid credit card at an automated vending station. The café wasn't crowded like it might be after school let out. She chose a cubicle facing the windows so she could keep an eye on the plaza while she waited.
She logged on to her Flickr page. At the top she saw the photo of the parchment she had posted, viewed over a hundred times already but uncommented. Below another two dozen newer photos waited. Quick shots, all from cell phones but remarkably focused and composed. Most showed Jimmi Tens making his way through his normal day. He didn't have a routine, per se, or even a regular path. But he did tend to have a few daily haunts and subtle patterns to his movements, more like opportunities, one of which she was specifically waiting for. A sampling of others showed his lieutenants scurrying to carry out his orders. A couple showed the shrine, safe and undisturbed. She hoped it remained that way. She hoped Neko remained out of sight.
She knew Jimmi Tens would approach his day casually, unrushed, as if nothing had happened. It was important to his ego, his image of self-control. But she knew he would recognize the hand that had penned his name and at some point go to confront his girlfriend. He wanted to make sure the girl was unsuspecting, thinking she had slipped something by him, that he wasn't paying attention. Then he would pounce, like the tiger that stalked his arm in ink.
Sipping a cup of mildly horrible tea brewed by another vending machine beside the door, Kami waited. She set the browser to refresh each time a picture was uploaded. So far, it looked like a normal day for Jimmi Tens, the tattoo parlor, the video store, the modeling agency, all providing either direct or indirect income to his organization. Then on to the small-cap real estate franchise that he had bought a token share of on the local stock exchange, one that enabled him to remind the owners that certain shareholders intended to ensure their investment was managed the way they wished. It appeared he might not check in on his wrestler's mother today, one of the many people whose welfare he saw to personally, as a reminder of his power over them.
As Kami waited for the pattern of his movements to compile, she stared out into the plaza, remembering when it was a tea garden with the same cobblestones full of artisans, students, and minor officials, all trying to avoid the samurai and their soldiers. So long ago. So much had changed, some good, some bad. The people were less militant and warlike now. The youth of today seemed more open than any generation in centuries. But they had once again lost their way, had become separated from the spirits. She had thought men like Jimmi Tens could help steer them away from the seductions of modern commercialism. She had been wrong. When she'd first met him, he wanted to reform the corporate culture that dominated the city now, saying he strove for a more balanced future. Now, he was indistinguishable from the other men who led organizations of violence. He terrorized individuals, threatened their families, ransacked their homes, burned their cars, murdered their pets and threw the severed heads over their garden walls, whatever was necessary to force them to comply with his desires. But, he had threatened an innocent, someone not involved in his schemes. Someone who had sought her out for justice.
Jimmi Tens had chosen his fate and driven it home with each nail into the temple door. Kami had no pity for him now, only sadness. He was irredeemable.
She continued watching her Flickr page update. Her keitai were working out better than she had anticipated, covering Jimmi, his lieutenants and street wardens, as well as the shrine. Each seemed to be in a private competition to outdo the others in the photos they captured surreptitiously. They were nearly as good as tapping into the citywide close circuit camera feed and much harder to trace or crash.
Jimmi was on the move again, this time toward the pachinko parlor in which he was a silent partner. That was the destination Kami had been waiting for. From there she knew the pattern. He would meet with his agents for an hour or more, reviewing their books and operations to ensure his sidelight ventures were running the way he desired. Then he would sneak out the back and head for his favorite sushi bar, the one where his new girlfriend worked. The one he had threatened, the one who had prayed to Neko for protection by penning his name to parchment, rolling it tight and inserting it into the temple wall.
She envisioned the route he'd take, out the service door, through the back alleys, touring the older, unmapped areas that still existed between the feet of the concrete and steel giants that had sprung from the ground around them. The city had grown organically over the centuries, and her knowledge of its streets with it. There were alleys and pathways, shortcuts and blind gates known only to a few. She knew more than even the most cunning of Jimmi's street wardens.
She knew the exact place she would intercept him. Buried in the maze of streets and ancient alleys was a traditional soba noodle shop, catering mostly to delivery and contract lunches in the office towers, Ronin Software among them. They crafted some of the best thin noodles and miso in the entire city and had for generations. It wasn't much to look at, just a lone holdover with a narrow storefront wedged between two towers. It had a pair of windows that looked out onto the dark, alley maze, marked only by a hand-painted sign.
She logged off her terminal, being certain to clear the browser of any traces of where she'd been. As she left, she tossed the remnants of tea into the clean, white receptacle by the door, exactly where it belonged. She descended the stairs but instead of emerging back into the plaza, she turned toward an unmarked, age-darkened wood and steel door at the back of the adjoining hallway. Few knew the door was always unlocked, one of the only surviving remnants of the ancient daimyo's watchtower that once dominated the landscape here.
The heavy door slid shut quietly behind her. She emerged from beneath an arched overhang at the corner of a narrow, stone alley, deep in the maze that clung tenaciously to the margins of modern society. One day, one of her aunts would rumble her discontent and this last vestige of a bygone age would disappear beneath stone and dust. But not today.
Kami wended her way through the maze, turning down narrow passageways, opening and closing unlocked gates, moving though stone-lined canyons that rarely saw the sun. Unlike their newer counterparts in the remainder of the city, all of them were clean. The families and businesses whose rear doors exited onto them still swept them each morning and rinsed them once a week. It pleased her to know that not all of the traditions in the city had died.
Ahead, Kami spotted the noodle shop sign hanging across from a doorway flanked by a pair of windows. Each window had a small, two-person table behind it for the scant customers who dropped in rather than called. Mostly, it was a convenient waiting area. The windows were from a day when the alley was actually a bustling back street. The ancient owner, who doubled as the chief cook, could clearly remember that time, decades before the firebombings had transformed the city both in geography and in temperament. He relished having someone stop in and take the time to appreciate his craft. He received so little direct feedback these days. She enjoyed his fare more than any other in the city, simple yet elegant. Hot or cold, you could taste the time-honored tradition in every bite.
She approached the counter and gave her order to the owner's daughter, a grandmother in her own right. No chitchat like the modern restaurants, just a simple attentiveness and courtesy. The afternoon was warm so she ordered a plate of chilled noodles with a nori seaweed topping and a pot of tea in case she had to wait. Though it went against the usual custom, she paid in advance. She would need to leave quickly once Jimmi wandered by.
Setting her backpack on the stool by the door, she settled onto the seat in the corner. She faced the side alley where Jimmi would emerge and turn away from her, the perfect location to intercept him, where he would have little time to react. The pink camo backpack contrasted nicely with the traditional amber wood seat, a perfect blend of past and future.
The noodles and tea came out promptly, giving her plenty of time to savor them before her target was likely to appear. She had to stay alert. Her wait could be half an hour or three; there was no way to predict. But she knew he would come before the day was out.
As she slurped her noodles noisily, the final wave of delivery boys, mostly grandchildren and great grandchildren, entered and left the shop with piles of boxes bound for the corporate towers. This was their last run in a two-hour marathon of deliveries to feed the office workers who had long since replaced the artisans who once made the city great. They would be gone for many hours, fanning out across the city afterwards to pick up supplies for tomorrow's fresh batch before they returned for the evening deliveries.
Sated by the noodles and nori, Kami turned toward the tea, savoring its green, slightly nutty flavor. Sencha, she presumed. The pale, steaming liquid flowed so gracefully from the cast iron pot into the sky and cloud glazed, handleless pottery cup. The comparison between this and her early sampling in the Internet café was simple: there was no comparison at all. She felt sorry for today's youth who had turned to that insipid substitute, or even coffee, over this delicately flavored jade brew.
Time stretched with each sip from the rough-thrown earthenware that warmed Kami's hand. The grandmother had long since disappeared into the back to help her father with the cleaning up. He came out briefly to sit at the table across from hers, smoking a cigarette in silence, another anachronism from a distant time she recalled so vividly, a time before Christianity or even Buddhism, had spiced the city's already flavorful stew. He met her gaze once and nodded. She smiled wanly and nodded back. He took no notice of her attire only her demeanor. With Kami, people saw only what they wanted to see. He soon disappeared back to his daily routine.
When the alley began to dim as the sun retreated behind towers of glass and steel, Kami feared she had miscalculated. She was thinking about heading off to another Internet café to check her Flickr page again in case Jimmi's routine had changed when she noticed a cat stroll down the alley, a large, gray tiger that she could have mistaken for Neko had he been striped rather than marbled. An omen. She set down her cup, knowing Jimmi couldn't be far behind. In the back of the shop, she heard the splash of water and the clank of metal as lunchtime dishes were washed. No one would hear her leave.
A moment later, she spotted movement at the corner. Jimmi Tens emerged and turned away from her, his long black overcoat flowing behind him. He didn't so much as spare a glance in her direction through his dark, designer shades. As she stood to retrieve her backpack, outside the gray tiger rubbed Jimmi's legs, trying his best to trip him with affection. Jimmi continued on his way, undaunted.
Before she left the shop, Kami unzipped the middle compartment of her backpack, then picked it up by the small carry handle between the straps with her left hand.
Back outside, Jimmi had disappeared. The alley jogged through a series of sharp corners beyond the intersection Kami had been watching. As she turned the second corner, the alley began to change from stone to concrete, from natural to manmade, the threshold of a transition from old to new. She could feel the power and rightness of this place. Her right hand delved into the open backpack compartment until it found the cold steel grip of the pistol.
When she turned the next corner, she found Jimmi had paused to scratch the gray tiger behind its ears. He sensed no immediate danger, unlike the cat, which saw her, perked his ears and darted back the way he had come. Only as Jimmi turned to see where the cat had disappeared to did he notice Kami. Even then, he didn't look even mildly concerned.
"Kitten," he said with his typical false sweetness and surprise, "just the person I've been looking for. You've become shy and elusive recently."
"Hi, Jimmi, I was starting to think you wouldn't come," Kami replied evenly.
Jimmi spread his hands wide, "Here I am, girl. But what's with all the drama? What's so urgent?"
"You received my message," she said, a statement not a question.
"On the phone? Yeah, it was kind of cryptic. Who wrote that anyway? Don't tell me someone's been spreading lies about me."
"You know better than that, Jimmi. I don't get involved unless someone asks, someone who needs my help, someone pure."
"There is no one pure in this city anymore," he said, shaking his head, "not even you.. Your time here is done. But you can stop by my apartment tonight and we can talk. Maybe we can take the Ninja out for a ride again, like old times. Right now, I on my way to see my new girlfriend."
"To raise your hand to her again? I don't think so" Kami's left hand dropped the backpack carry handle. The pink pistol slid free from its concealment in her right.
Jimmi raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Oow, Kitten thinks she has claws. Where'd you pick that toy up?"
"You should know, Jimmi;" she answered casually, "it traces back to you. Someone dropped it at the shrine after the Otaku murder. What did that child do to you?"
Jimmi smiled his cynical smile. "He promised to create a buzz for a new manga my sister's daughter had an interest in. I told him only girls and children are involved in that anime culture. He said he was ready to be a man. But he couldn't do a man's work."
The gun hung heavy in Kami's hand. Jimmi had just confirmed that its associated guilt was linked back to him. In her hand, it was transformed into a holy weapon, an instrument of the gods. Nothing but atonement could save him now. "What, he wouldn't commit your violence for you? You can still make amend your path."
Now, Jimmi grew angry, "I have nothing to amend. Violence is for street gangs and petty thieves. I am neither."
"I think that captures the essence of you now, Jimmi, petty and violent." She was trying to antagonize him, like Neko playing with her prey. "I used to think you had potential before you went all Martin Luther on me."
His eyes grew as hard and sharp as a katana. "You act as though you know better than I do how I should act and who I should be. You should stop this, Kitten, before someone you care about gets hurt."
"Someone already has, Jimmi, someone you threatened, someone you nailed to my temple door. You said you would defend Neko and the shrine. You swore an oath. You lied." She raised the pistol and aimed it at his chest. "You, off all people, should understand what betraying your word means."
"You think anything I promised you is important?" he retorted, maintaining his defiance. "You're just a schoolgirl playing in a man's world for excitement. What were you before I met you? The same thing you are now, a street slut pretending to be a priestess. You didn't even know how to shoot that before I taught you. Do you even remember?"
Kami let the hint of a smile creep across her face. "I remember what you told me once, 'don't point a gun at something unless plan to shoot it; don't pull the trigger unless you want it dead.'" She cocked her head inquisitively and let her smile blossom. "Did I get that right?"
Only then did the gravity of his situation begin to sink in. His fingers twitched as he longed to draw the weapon she knew he had secreted somewhere in his clothing. His eyes flicked around quickly as if trying to identify anything nearby that could save him. They found nothing. "You've never shot anyone before, have you, Kitten, never actually watched someone die." He held out his hand for the gun. "Leave a man's work to men like me and you'll live a much longer and happier life. Girls like you aren't strong enough to shoulder the load."
"You're wrong, Jimmi," Kami replied, her hand unwavering. "You only taught me to shoot, not to kill. It's time for you to face your ancestors. It's time for you to atone for what you've done." She thumbed the hammer back until she felt it click. "It's time to say, 'Hello, Kitty.'"
Jimmi's hand began to move toward his coat as he began to dodge to one side. Kami squeezed the trigger, just like he'd taught her, slowly, deliberately, until the hammer fell in explosive silence.
When the people of her island were born, their parents penned their names to the Shinto lists; when they married, they sought a Christian blessing; when they died, they were purified by Buddhist flames. Somewhere in the city, Buddhist gongs called their monks home from the fields, Christian bells called their monks to Vespers. She had never been threatened by either of their traditions, had always enjoyed them both. Perhaps one of them would claim Jimmi Tens. The Christians would condemn his soul to eternal torment, the Buddhists to another cycle on the wheel. To the spirits, he would serve the city better dead than he had alive, as an example. He had been chosen for greatness. He could have been a new leader. Instead, he had selected a divergent path, one that had separated his spirit from the ancestors. Now, he was like a candle at dawn, no longer necessary to combat the darkness. As her own temple chimes echoed like a choir in the distance, his spirit flickered out.
Kami stared down at the man who used to be a warlord, an oyabun, and now might become someone's revered ancestor. Only if a sister or a niece mourned him earnestly and reinserted his name somewhere in the temple wall. She reached into her backpack, pulled out the miko's hair scarf and wiped the pistol's grip and trigger. He would be found in an hour or so when the sabo shop's delivery boys returned. The gun alone would be enough for the national police to dismantle his organization, though they would wonder what had killed him. She didn't think there was a box for guilt on the coroner's official forms. She doubted it would be ruled a suicide, which undoubtedly it was. In the end, the report would probably say that Jimmi Tens had died as he'd lived, by violence.
Kami deposited the pistol onto his chest before drifting back through the ancient city toward the shrine where she would burn his name from the lists and tell Neko that she, too, had received justice.© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III
