[hirana kizumi]

Kizumi murmured a wordless noise of comprehension; she knew all too well what it meant to have a complicated relationship with family, and what Uemon didn’t say spoke volumes. Her parents had been gone far too long for any bitter memories to remain, but her sister was very much still alive. Deep breath, he said, and she complied, inhaling deep and exhaling twice as slowly as Uemon stabbed the needle into that delicate stretch of skin. It stung, as acrid-sharp as a stab wound, but the pain made it all the sweeter once that section was done. Maybe K was onto something—the endorphins were making Kizumi’s head spin. Most people didn’t cast themselves in the role of the villain, Uemon agreed, but she heard how he hedged, that ultralight cast of uncertainty that colored his tone. Most people, Kizumi thought. She caught his eye as he said her name, holding his gaze for a long moment before he resumed his work. She let her head fall onto the pillow of her bicep, considering what he had asked. "Big question,” she said—she needed to think, but didn’t want to give the impression that she was ignoring him. Under normal circumstances, she might have deflected; a joke, a pithy observation, turning the question back around. Maybe it was the hours she’d spent under the needle, the chemicals swimming to her head, the very notable lack of liquor in her system—whatever the reason, she felt obliged to answer earnestly. Three heads for now, a journey yet unfinished: tit for tat, honesty for honesty. "There’s a few things, I think,” she said. "Maybe that’s why eight heads, yeah? Metaphors.” Who were the villains of her story? "It’d be easy to say—my sister, for one. Never forgave me for a laundry list of things, and love’s not enough when a grudge runs that deep.” Deep breath again, exhaling through the needle’s sting. "Power—corrupts absolutely. The Plague, whatever caused it, all that it took.” She smiled, brief and grim and genuine. "Too easy, though,” she said. "Most people don’t want to believe they’re the villain of anyone’s story, least of all their own.” Most people, she thought, but not people like us.

Muramasa Uemon -- 378

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

survive through us all

---

Quietly he continued on with his task, pausing every so often to inspect the needle's edge and reapply the dark ink before returning the point to her skin. The wanderer was curious as to the woman's potential answer, sure...

But he was in no particular rush to have her speak it. It was not a simple or easy question, and aside from that he was never one to begrudge a person their secrets. Still, Kizumi seemed... different. Forthright in a way that he had not expected from any shinobi, least of all the leader of a Hidden Village. "Metaphors." He echoed her word.

Leaving her time to ponder as his hands continued their delicate work. The Raikage spoke of her sister and of old grudges between them. "How long has it been since I've seen my own?" A thought occurred as he listened, glancing up just in time to see her inhale deeply. "Eari, Airie, Iori... I wonder if they loathe me by now." For abandoning them to pursue his goals, for never visiting despite his constant travel, for becoming who— what he had become. "They'd be right to..."

Gone was the loving brother that they knew growing up alongside all of his hopes and dreams. All that was left now was a spite-fueled simulacrum of a person. "Power tends to do that— and to hate the thing that ravaged your home..." Uemon grew quieter still as the woman spoke of authority and the plague, not even the sound of his breathing audible as his eyes focused on the flesh beneath his gloved hands. Prick, prick, prick the needle went, ink mixing with blood to create darkened, skin-staining trails along her hip. Meanwhile, inside of his head... "I hate what ruined mine too." A sole thought as he saw to his task. After some time he paused to take hold of another cleansing wipe, and it was in that moment that he glanced up to see Kizumi smile. A sad smile, one full of melancholy on one hand and utmost sincerity on the other. Uemon could rarely even manage that anymore... but he certainly understood it. "..."

Silence followed and though he did not realize it, his own mouth had contorted ever so slightly into the smallest of frowns. At rest, his face looked somewhere between sulking and annoyed. Now, even muted as it was, he appeared sympathetic in his own way. "...she's like me." Not exactly, of course, but what went unsaid sounded loudest to him.

The implications of her words that resided between the lines. Uemon gently pressed the moist wipe against her hip and began to gently clean. "...thank you, Kizumi." He muttered, quieter than ever as his hand moved and his eyes focused. "For listening, sharing... and for even asking in the first place." It may have seemed unimportant...

...though for someone who rarely had the opportunity to share with others, it really was anything but. "Who have I even told about this? Two people? Less?" It was only pigment in the end, but the tale behind it was a deeply personal one.

Once he had finished wiping away the excess blood and ink from her hip, he discarded the soiled towelette in a nearby bin and set his needle down on a tray. Uemon took a few moments to inspect the linework carefully, squinting at the outline of the creature before shifting his gaze to the woman's eye, and nodding towards the mirror.

"We still have a ways to go, but... what do you think?" He asked, turning to tend to the needle while he waited for her reply. For a black-and-grey piece like this the shading would take a while, but they were making progress.

---

[hirana kizumi]

It was rare—exceedingly rare—that Kizumi spoke at any length about herself. Concerns and doubts she expressed freely: but they were concerns for the nations, doubts in her village’s security, anxiety over what the future held and the tumultuous political landscape that painted the background of her rise to the Raikage’s office. The vulnerability was uncomfortable, and it had taken her by surprise—it felt like the fresh burn of cooking iron against bare skin, the blistering heat quickly soothed by cool running water. It never took much for someone to endear themselves to Kizumi, and Uemon had earned her affection within seconds… but in this strange space between needle and flesh, shrouded behind curtains and sheltered from the light of the world beyond, he had also somehow earned her trust. The wipe stung more than the needle; she grimaced as it passed over her skin, her nose scrunching up and her teeth clenching. …but she returned his small, pensive frown with a wry smile of her own. She was, for once in her life, at a loss for words. To thank him in turn felt trite, and she was unsure of herself in this theater, reaching for language that she didn’t quite know how to use. She could only hope that her appreciation was conveyed, and received. She got up to examine herself in the mirror again, letting out a low whistle of admiration as she saw the work that Uemon had continued across her back and hip. The detailing was exquisite—the broad outline of ship and sea monster brought to life, and the last step now would only be to give it depth. "Don’t let the boss see,” she said. "He’ll poach you and keep you here and you’ll never find your cousin.” She took another minute or two to admire, reaching her hand around to gently graze her fingertips over what she could reach; her spine popped with the contortion, bones grumbling in the way of the not-yet-forty. "How you feelin’?” she asked. "Wanna keep going, or do you want to stop for the day? I don’t want to keep you chained down here, ‘n I know you must want that info on your cousin.”

Muramasa Uemon -- 368

LAIKA OF THQ

[Muramasa Uemon]

a fond, fond farewell

---

Stranger things had happened to him than personal conversation in an irezumi-ya, but this had been unexpected.

In a pleasant sort of way, which to him, was most surprising of all. To Uemon, who so constantly lived in the past, it was difficult not to see shades of other people in Hirana Kizumi. The same way he likened others to past allies.

Unlikely as it was, he had shared part of himself here. Bore a piece of his soul— however slight, which was a pattern he was now beginning to recognize. "She almost reminds me of Sensei..." He thought, not unlike Ryujin Shiina had, some time ago. "...if Sensei had been kind." And that was the difference. Still, she was strong, wise, a leader... perhaps, in a different life, his family could have found refuge in Kaminari no Kuni instead. He could have entered the service of Kumogakure, practiced more of his kenjutsu, sought some form of honor here... where now, after all he had done, none was promised. "I would have followed someone like her." He thought. "A lord— a lady, worth serving."

Not a samurai like he dreamed of as a child, but a noble bushi, perhaps. Like Tetsu no Kuni's warriors of old... like the tales his father used to tell. "It is too late now." The thought came, her smile conveying what words failed to. That, he was grateful for too. As the Raikage rose, he averted his gaze downward. "Just another foolish story." Uemon had gone too far to turn back now... "And further yet to go." A word of praise from Kizumi made a corner of his mouth wriggle, and he shook his head. "If he asks..." He said, glancing briefly to her eye. "Tell him I botched it."

As interesting as a job like this might be, he had other things to tend to. The Raikage asked if he would like to continue, and he shifted his gaze to a nearby clock. Hours had passed. "Actually... I should be going." He muttered.
Neutral as his expression typically was, even it began to flatten. "My cousin will have to wait for tonight." The wanderer explained, discarding his gloves. "...I have a rowdy child to get back to." 'Feral' was probably more apt.

But they were working on it. Slowly, patiently, but surely. Uemon rose from his own chair, taking a moment to clean the tools he borrowed then begin to set them back in an orderly fashion. "If you'd like to finish at a later date, feel free to call upon me." He offered, aligning the instruments. "For as long as I'm here... you have my aid."

In matters of irezumi, smithing, shinobi affairs, or anything else she might require. Generally speaking, he did not hold shinobi in the highest regard. No doubt a product of his past interactions with the paranoid, barely-contained hostility he had been met with in other nations. "Most think me suspect... a threat by virtue of differing places of birth." 

Not Hirana Kizumi. Uemon turned to her and bowed his head. "Farewell, Hachi—" He caught himself. "...Kizumi." After he spoke, he lifted his gaze, catching one final glimpse of his artwork. "Until we meet again."

With that, he would bid her a polite goodbye, waving to the parlor's owner on his way out of the establishment. An unexpected turn for his evening to take... but a pleasant experience. "Hirana Kizumi..." He thought. "One of a kind."

---

[hirana kizumi]

Tell him I botched it. Kizumi cackled, throwing her head back; her shoulders flexed with the motion and tugged at the raw open wounds left by the needle and she winced, which only made her laugh harder. "You have my word,” she said, trying in vain to stifle her bout of giggles. A release of tension, partially, the heavy emotion of their conversation lightening its load some; partially the endorphins running amok in her system. Her curiosity was piqued at the mention of a rowdy child. Uemon certainly didn’t look old enough to be a father of a child capable of being rowdy, but hey—any number of circumstances could have happened, and it wasn’t her place to judge. She nodded her understanding without comment or question, and if she was lucky, maybe she’d get to find out more at a future date. "I’ll look into your cousin when I get back to the office,” she said. "Might take a couple of days, but I’ll let you know what I find. See you soon, Uemon.” After he left, she stood in silence, quietly mulling over the hours that had just slipped past her. But her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the owner coming into the back to inspect Uemon’s handiwork, stroking his chin as he looked this way and that. "Not bad,” the old man said begrudgingly. "Not bad at all.” "He botched it,” Kizumi said, and laughed so hard that she had to sit down. [fin.]

Muramasa Uemon -- 252

LAIKA OF THQ