Some more Japanese vocabulary:

udon: long thick noodles

The first operation was a personal one for Carlos. He led the entire offensive, which took place at a primary hangout for the Sportsman Boys, just a couple of blocks from where he had died. Bones went first, ripping the door off its hinges as he stooped into the room. The shock and awe tactics worked too well for the demon gang - Bones took more than one bullet as he ripped through walls and furtniture and killed men with his bare hands, while Carlos, Quinn and Sweet Atlanta supported him with gunfire. Gekijo took up the rear guard, unkeen on firearms, and in a spot of intense chaos as this, his best faculty involved his sharp perception of details, staying exterior to the madness to catch any overlooked liability.

When it was over, Carlos told Gekijo about the look on the Sportsman Boys' faces - they had killed Carlos, no one came back from the grave. Gekijo nodded his approval. Quinn meanwhile set about to igniting the place as they exited with the cash. This and subsequent operations were more like terrorism than robberies. Quinn was a madman, superfluous in his execution, and it wasn't long before the whispers in the city were out about this new and unknown force. The nightly news reported these scenes as just more of their normal fare, but the talk in the crime circles recognized them for what they were - targeted assaults. Quinn would sit in the Den, having long discussions with Doctor while he took copious notes and consulted maps with arrows and markings all over, and when he was satisfied, like a lurking snake in the shallows they would strike again. Bones sightings became a point of urban mythos - Sweet Atlanta showed them all a website that was keeping tabs on witness reports. Within a few months it was no longer possible for him to move around in the open - he was too big, too distinctive. He began to live permanently in the Den along with Doctor, and if he had a problem with this, he never said anything.

The space that was the Den was evidently tied completely to the lamppost, in that the lamppost could be unbolted and moved, hauled around in a U-Haul truck, and then set up again, and the Den would be down in the ground, right beneath its base, as though it had always been there. This made it possible to keep Bones in hiding, but the lamppost itself was so obtrusive - besides its uncommon appearance and its obvious difference to other lammposts in the city, the light was always on, even during the day, even when they unbolted it and loaded it in the truck.

Gekijo knew all of this would not end well. They were drawing too much attention. He doubted the protection the lamppost's hiding place provided was as inviolate as Quinn regarded. He spoke with Quinn earnestly on this subject, but Quinn wouldn't hear it. Carlos agreed with Gekijo, but the money was coming in and he had more bones to pick. Whatever thoughts Bones may have had, he never offered them. And Sweet Atlanta - it became clear that she was Quinn's lover, and whether in league or dedicated or just indulging him, her ennui was a cloud bank Gekijo couldn't fathom. Tamashi told him not to worry, everything would be alright. The kitsune told him not to worry, everything would be alright. Gekijo fumed.

The morning came when Gekijo awoke in the early light to a pain in his whole mouth. He put a hand there and felt... sharpness that shouldn't have been. He stumbled into the bathroom of his apartment and looked in the mirror, taking in what he saw for what it was - his mouth was filled fully with sharp teeth, each one a point in a jagged line. There were two rows of them, one behind the other, on both the top and bottom. He stuck his finger on one and pressed until the skin broke and the finger began bleeding. He was glad to receive no calls from the others that day, but the next had a meeting in the Den, and Gekijo had no intention to hide the teeth or to even mention them. But it was unavoidable, Carlos was agape, wondering if the same thing was going to happen to him, and Quinn seemed quite pleased. "You sure are a piece of work, aren't you?" was what he said, and Gekijo withheld striking him in the face, not for the first time.

That evening, Gekijo fried beef udon for himself for dinner. He set it in a bowl and sat down and looked at it. It was a meal he had prepared and consumed many times, but somehow tonight it looked different. It smelled different. Unappealing. He walked back into the kitchen and pulled the raw beef loin from the fridge and set it back on the cutting board. He took out a knife and cut off one thin sliver of the beef loin and brought it up to his face, dripping red. He simply stared at it, you might say in contemplation, but no thought crossed his mind. Then he flipped it into his mouth and tore it to shreds with his many jagged teeth. He cut off a bigger slice and did the same. In short order he ate the whole thing; all that was left was a red smear on the cutting board. He cleaned up and went to bed.

That should have been enough to make Gekijo leave, to pack up and go back to Japan and start over, to find distance, and space to which he belonged - but an important thread kept him in New York, at the Den. Quinn had promised to help crack the binding rirtual, and while Gekijo had scarce reason to really trust him, it was evident that Quinn was in fact working on it. He and Gekijo had sat down with Doctor a few times, discussing with the ancient prophet what it would take to undo what was never meant to be undone. Doctor talked of winding entrails, unraveling whicker baskets and such things. Quinn took notes, practically transcribing the exchange, as Gekijo grew steadily more exasperated. What Gekijo gleaned was that it had to be accomplished from both outside and inside the blade - Doctor spoke of "digging a tunnel and shaking hands in the middle" - and when Doctor mentioned "rebirth" Gekijo's attention was honed in as a bird of prey. "Rebirth," Doctor croaked, a dry rattling diction, "Rebirth - it's a rose... a rosebud blooming in the bosom of angels."

"Well, don't ask Sweet Atlanta," said Quinn, "She doesn't give a shit about your daughter."

Gekijo was pretty sure that what Sweet Atlanta did or didn't give a shit about was far beyond Quinn, but said nothing.

There were other reasons to stay. If he had to sacrifice himself for Tamashi, he would. And besides Quinn, Gekijo found himself liking every other member of the gang - possibly also excepting Doctor, who was so strange he often got on Gekijo's nerves, but it is hard to like what you don't understand.

Carlos was a dedicated criminal, but was grounded by a family-based code, characteristics that were not new to Gekijo, but in Carlos they seemed so much more alive, more colorful. Carlos told him story after story, about living in Venezuela as a child, about his mom and brother, about the day his brother died. He couldn't see his mother anymore, but he had a way to leave her money: when she got paid he would stuff the envelope with a fat wad of extra bills, sometimes even doodling Christian symbology on the envelope. Gekijo was impressed. He found himself, after a moment of long silence, slowly relating a tale about his own mother. She had served a cloth maker. Each day she spirited one thread, until finally she had enough to make a shawl for Gekijo. The threads were not all the same, and the shawl shifted colors when it was held up to the light. She had died when we was very young. He stopped talking, realizing that Doctor, Quinn and Sweet Atlanta were in the room and listening.

He found that Sweet Atlanta was another one he shared common ground with - an interesting thought, for this to exist between an assassin and an angel. But Sweet Atlanta was terse and efficient - her words were always few and well chosen, and she executed her actions only ever by doing what was needed and not more - in sharp contrast to Quinn, who seemed to have a fetish for arsony. Gekijo did in fact ask Sweet Atlanta about what Doctor had said: "Rebirth is a rosebud blooming in the bosom of angels," and she replied simply, "Never heard of it." They had been sitting at a small table in a bustling coffee shop, looking directly at each other, he with his green tea and she with a latte, and neither said anything further. It must have been another half an hour, just sipping without ever turning their heads. Her eyes were hidden completely by her silver visor, but he could tell she was looking at him.

Bones was a little more lively of a drinking partner. The big guy could put down several dozen beers without losing more than the barest quiver of composure. Gekijo and he would sit across from each other in the Den, downing drinks one after the other, Gekijo using all of his extensive willpower and discipline to maintain self-command after a dozen shots. The bets were never on who would win - it was Bones every time - but how many drinks Gekijo would last for. On one particular evening Carlos raked a big pot off of Quinn and then the two of them had a double-or-nothing drink-off. Quinn was trying to throw Carlos off by downing shots as fast as he could, forcing Carlos to keep up, but it backfired when Quinn hurled into a white bucket Sweet Atlanta had smoothly conjured. It was one of the things about the Den beneath the lamppost: the space was small but maleable, the rooms and walls could be shifted, and needful objects could be suddenly handy. Books, computers, appliances, Gekijo didn't know from what energy such things appeared but Sweet Atlanta in particular was in control of it. Quinn almost wasn't going to pay Carlos, but Sweet Atlanta made him.

That night Gekijo took a taxi home, barely rememering his own address and somehow stumbling into the right apartment. He slumped off to bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

The katana blade was perched by his bedside. Tamashi spoke to him through his sleepfulness, as she usually did. Gekijo thought he could see her, a faint whisp, a shadow dancing just out of sight. But then he realized that he could feel the heat, and heard the soft, high growl of the kitsune.

He turned and there it was, stalking low and then it pounced! A liquid flame with clawed endings and nine streaming tails! Gekijo ducked and rolled, then turned again to face his harasser. They were standing on a flat expanse, a dull grey and purple and blue stretching out in all directions, seeming both earthy and artificial at the same time. The kitsune prowled a slow circular path around Gekijo, one paw after the other, its snout in a continuous tight sneer. Gekijo himself was with claws which he held in a ready stance, his own teeth bared. Would they just claw each other to pieces? He was sure that neither would survive. But then he saw her there, that whisp he had perceived. Tamashi was a long ribbon, white and silver and gold, streaming from around the kitsune's neck, barely visible in the fox fire. The kitsune snickered at him, and when it spoke, it was with Tamashi's voice as well as its own, overlapping each other.

"Would you kill me, dad, just like that?" Gekijo would not acknowledge that it was Tamashi speaking to him - this was the kitsune. The worst devil. Gekijo said nothing.

"Remember what Doctor said, we have to dig a tunnel from both ends and shake hands in the middle," still with that echoing double voice. The kitsune was grinning so wide its whole snout was distorting. Then with the sound of jetting flames, it shifted, its whole body glowing white as it hunched and stretched, grew taller, and suddenly it was a woman. It was... Tamashi, as she might have been, but more beautiful and more terrible than Gekijo could imagine her. She was adorned in fine silk that flickered at the edges, and she was still grinning horribly.

"Maybe if you become a demon and I human, maybe then we will be free. What do you think, dad?"

"Don't test me, kitsune."

Tamashi laughed. "Isn't it always a test?" she asked him. It was her voice, her face, and she <u>was</u> there, even if the kitsune was overlaying her. Gekijo had trouble but to think the being before him was in fact Tamashi. He was sure the kitsune could see him loosing his bearing.

"What do you want?"

"To be free." It was a simple statement, said plainly. But there was something in the freedom the kitsune wanted. Gekijo could see Tamashi's form, standing in a great hall, a place of power, a legislature assembled with Tamashi on the dais. He could see Tamashi clacking bones together in a chamber where dancers evaded death by pleasing her with sensual contortions. He saw Tamashi laughing at the fate of millions swept along in global war. The laughter was so big, so inhuman, Gekijo rejected it completely. His eyes were narrowed to slits against the kitsune's bright light. He saw the ribbon trailing in the heated draft - the real Tamashi was just a dancer dancing in a wind she could not control. This angered Gekijo greatly. The kitsune woman wearing his daugter's face was still laughing, shrill barking laughter, laughter that grated sharply against Gekijo's soul. The kind of laughter that always earned the glass adder venom.

Gekijo leapt. It was a single powerful leap, the large claws his hands had become he snapped outwards at the flaming figure, and suddenly he was engulfed in it. But of course he wasn't. The two struggled against each other in this dream space, but the reality was that the kitsune was held in steel, bound by the blood of a virgin thief. Gekijo could feel the flames flicking against his body, but they were rapidly receding flames, pulling away from him along with all that was around them, until he suddenly awoke in his bed, bolted upright, coughing badly. The sword had fallen over, the room was hot and smokey, and the carpet was on fire.

Gekijo ran to his kitchen. There was a small fire extinguisher there in a cupboard. He sprayed the dry chemical all over the bedroom carpet, which doused the flames there, but the sword was still alive with fire. More bursts from the fire extingquisher did nothing. He picked up the katana by its hilt and held the flaming thing. The kitsune was still laughing, what sense did the fucking thing have? Kitsune were supposed to be wise. It was reading his mind, of course.

"You want wisdom? There are many more tests to be won, Gekijo. Will you know the wrong answers to the right questions? What happens to me when you spring your daughter? Do I come prancing out, too?"

Then Gekijo heard Tamashi's voice, singly. "I think maybe we can teach the kitsune. I want to be free; I think the kitsune has to be our friend."

"Oh yes," the kitsune said, "I will be a good fox pup. Feed me my favorite treat and I will grant all of your wishes."

At that Gekijo did the only thing he could think to do, at four in the morning, with a hangover, holding a flaming sword that was taunting him. He walked into the bathroom and turned the cold tap on the tub to full open. Then he plunged the protesting blade into the water, which began churning and steaming immediately, water splashing all over Gekijo and the bathroom. He opened the window and operated the drain valve so that the tub would not overflow. Cold water continued poring in, cycling out that which was boiling in the kitsune's heat. It took a while, but the fire eventually died, the kitsune grumbling nonstop, but Gekijo could tell it was genuinly licked, for now. Tamashi had grown silent, and Gekijo turned off the tap, dried himself, and went back to bed.

When he awoke, he pulled himself to the bathroom. The katana was sitting at the bottom of the tub's shallow water. He noticed that he still had the claw hands from the dream. Each of his fingers came to thick, horny ends. Gekijo stared himself in the mirror. He could see there the faintest of double images, human Gekijo and demon Gekijo, on top of each other. The differences in his face and eyes were subtle, the teeth and claws not so much.

Gekijo pulled the katana from the tub and wiped the water from its blade. He set it on a towel on the dining room table and attempted to unwind the brown cloth binding on the hilt so he could dry it properly, but of course it would not come undone. The katana was bound with the blood of a virgin theif, nothing about it was ever going to come undone.

He spent the entire rest of the day in his apartment, focusing and unfocusing his clawed hands into being, or his natural human fingers, until he could switch them quickly and at will.