Naomi goes berserk

“Naomi, you can’t do this! This is madness! ”

Hiro was standing in the doorframe, arms wide and hands open in an appeasing gesture. In vain. He was the only thing that stood between the snarling samurai and the outside. The first obstacle between them and their goal. And the tip of their blade, held still with utmost control a mere metre away from him, made it clear how they intended to deal with obstacles.

“Move,” Naomi ordered. 

Hiro shivered. Their voice was cold and calm, like the eye of a raging storm. And beyond the inflexible voice, he could hear the underlying tremor, the rage that was vibrating though their whole being. The despair.

Making them go blind.

“It’s a dead end, Naomi,” he insisted nonetheless. “You can’t get her back like that. You can’t…”

“Get out of my way.”

…beat him.

What Naomi was planning to do was suicide. Hiro knew it. Just like he knew that, to get Kanako back, Naomi would stop at nothing. But he couldn’t let them go, knowing what might happen. What would, inevitably, happen.

“I won’t let you do this.”

Naomi’s eyes hardened.

“I do not wish to harm you, Hiro. But any obstacle that stands in my way will be dealt with. And I will make no exceptions.”

The tip of the blade moved upwards, Naomi’s dark eyes still riveted to Hiro’s.

Behind Naomi, there was movement. The shinobi made the mistake of letting his gaze flicker to Milo for just an instant. The medic was silently reaching for Kanako’s gun, abandoned on the pool table, ready to defend his boyfriend. Despite his lack of training, despite his pacifism, despite the implacable determination that they both knew was flowing through Naomi’s veins in place of their blood. Hiro’s heart tightened. Against all odds, their love for their partners was what would ultimately drive them apart.

Naomi did not even turn around. In one swift movement, they pulled a shuriken out of their kimono, and threw it behind them. It tore right through Milo’s shirt sleeve, and planted itself in the wood of the table with a dull thump, covered by the small cry of surprise from the medic.

“Any. Obstacle.”

Their eyes hadn’t left his for a second.

Hiro loved Naomi and Kanako. He would go to hell and back for his friends, would not hesitate to risk his life for them.

His life. Not Milo’s.

With the feeling of tearing his heart in two, he took a step to the side. 

“You’re making a mistake,” he warned one last time, as Naomi walked past him without a word.

They disappeared through the door, and silence fell again, only troubled by the pounding of Hiro’s heart in his ears. His eyes were locked with Milo’s, wordlessly ordering him not to move. Only once the noise of the motorbike outside assured him that Naomi was gone, did he allow himself to run to his boyfriend, kneeling next to him and easing the gun from his hand. As if Hiro’s touch had been magic, the medic finally shook away his frightened stillness and stood up. 

“We need to do something!”

Hiro shook his head sadly.

“Nothing we can do will stop them. They won’t listen to reason.”

“But they have to! This is clearly a trap, and they’re running right into it!” 

There was fear in Milo’s eyes, and Hiro wasn’t certain who it was for. 

Fear, and determination. The medic had been ready to shoot Naomi as soon as they’d threatened Hiro, but he was no less set on saving them from their own mistakes. Them, and Kanako. Whatever had happened to her.

Hiro simply wished there was another solution than running after Naomi into the lion’s den.

“Get ready.”

He let go of Milo’s hand, and walked to his bedroom. There, he retrieved the bumbag carrying his weapons, a mask and a coat, and went back to the living room. Milo had already stuffed a medical kit, Kanako’s gun and a few explosives into a backpack, and was standing at the door.

“They took Kanako’s motorbike,” he pointed out. “We’ll never catch up with them with the car.”

Hiro grabbed two helmets from the shelf they were lined on, and handed one to his boyfriend.

“We’ll steal a motorbike.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to Iya.”

///

There was a storm in their head. A raging wind, wreaking havoc through their thoughts, keeping reason at bay and pushing them forward. The calm and control in their ice-cold voice and their rock-smooth face was only a façade.

Deep inside, Naomi knew it was madness. They knew they would not win this fight, not unless a miracle happened. But at the core of themself, in the eye of the storm, stood Kanako. Kanako, tied and bound; Kanako, with her hair pulled by an anonymous hand; Kanako, with blood trickling down her face, with her lip split, with her eye swollen; Kanako with that deep, unbreakable hatred in her eyes. With the glint that said: Naomi is coming, and you will pay.

In the eye of the storm was Naomi’s determination. A samurai did their duty, no matter what happened. And their duty was to protect her.

No matter what happened.

Why would he do this?

Why would Goemon-sensei harm the one person who he knew would make Naomi turn against him?

They would have believed it impossible, a hateful lie, an affront to Goemon-sensei’s honour; if it hadn’t been for the undeniable accent of truth in Kojima’s warning, the irrefutable proofs that he had brought. The fact that Goemon-sensei’s vengeance was justified changed nothing to Naomi’s rage. No one touched Kanako Misuki. No one.

The wind was blowing in their face, making the road blurry as they sped along the highway. The wheels of the motorbike swallowed the asphalt and the kilometres, and the landscape slowly changed, becoming more and more familiar. They had travelled this road for the first time at seventeen, fleeing a past too heavy for them. They had entered these mountains looking for a meaning to give to their life. They had walked on this bridge, crossed this river, sat under this waterfall, run along this trail. 

Learned and grown in this village.

Met their master in this dojo.

Found their calling in this house.

Lost their faith in this man.

The small trail of smoke rising from the house assured them that they would find Goemon-sensei here. They parked Kanako’s motorcycle some way away from the house. He must have heard it, but with a bit of luck, he would expect Fujiko Mine to show up, not Naomi. 

The young samurai climbed off the bike and took off the helmet, calmly putting it in the top box. Then they took their katana, firmly tucked it in their obi, and made sure the blade slid smoothly in the sheath. 

They stood still in front of the house, knuckles white on the hilt of their sword.

It was just as they remembered it. A traditional Japanese minka, built of wood and paper panes, straight out of a movie. Small, homy, nestled against a cliff surrounded by a peaceful meadow, that ended in a sheer drop into the valley. They had spent hours here, repeating katas until exhaustion, fighting and losing and fighting again for hours on end, sitting in front of the sunset and meditating, letting the peace of the place wash over them. The grass was just as green and soft as in their memories, the wind blew just as softly, the rays of the sun brought the same peace and calm. 

And inside the house was the man who had taken them under his wing, fashioned their potential into skill, taught them everything he knew. Helped them turn their childhood dream into reality.

The man who had betrayed their trust, their admiration and their devotion. 

The man who had taken from them the most important person in their life; who had dared to lay a finger on Kanako Misuki.

One last time, the voice of reason inside Naomi told them this was a mistake. They knew that it was right; and that if they listened, they would turn on their heels, put their sword away, come back to Hiro and Milo, empty handed. Save their own life in exchange for Kanako’s. If they listened, they would take the easy path and give up. Lose Kanako, and lose themself at the same time.

The image of Kanako’s bloodied face, seared into their mind, smothered the voice at last.

Naomi took a deep breath, and a step forward. There would be no turning back from this.

The door slid open smoothly, with its familiar clattering sound announcing the presence of a visitor to everyone in the house. The living room was empty, but there was the sound of footsteps coming from deeper inside. By the time Naomi set foot on the tatami mat, the barely contained rage that had been vibrating through their whole being had been concentrated into an arrow of pure determination, burning white hot in their chest. The hand on the hilt of their katana did not tremble anymore.

There was only surprise on Goemon’s face, when he stepped inside the room to find himself face to face with his former student. A pleasant surprise at first when he recognized them. Then a worried one, when he noticed the dark flame dancing in their eyes.

“Naomi-kun? Why are you here?”

They had not seen each other in several years, and in Naomi’s mind, his face was still that of a mentor, his voice that of teaching and knowledge. 

When indoors in a private home or noble’s estate, one must surrender the katana. Drawing one’s blade inside someone’s home is a deadly offense.

In one swift movement, rendered almost invisible by hours of practice, Naomi drew their sword.

“You know very well why I am here, sensei.”

The surprise on his face turned into a hard determination, tinted with a disappointment that Naomi pretended to ignore. Pretended didn’t reach them and make their heart shrink in shame.

“I assure you I do not,” he retorted. His grip tightened on the hilt of the katana that never left his side. “You…”

Naomi did not wait for him to finish spewing whatever misguiding lies he was building up. The steel of their blade sung as it left its sheath, and they launched themself at Goemon.

“TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!”

The crash of the blades meeting each other was terrible. The wave of shock travelled through Naomi’s body, making them stagger; but it was far from enough to stop them. With renewed resolve, they attacked, jabbed, slashed, feinted, and parried every blow that came their way. Goemon was holding himself back to avoid hurting his opponent. That, and the glint of surprise tinted with pride in his eyes, only made Naomi’s fury burn brighter. 

They were not the student he had taught to anymore, young and impressionable, lacking experience. They were a hardened warrior, far along the path of the blade, animated by a white-hot rage just as great and terrible as the fear that fuelled it. And that fear may just be what made Naomi stronger than their former master.

They could barely believe their own eyes, when the Zantetsuken flew out of Goemon’s hands and planted itself in the tatami mat, several metres away from the opponents. But there was no time to congratulate themself for a feat that they had never believed possible. Their next blow threw Goemon to the ground, and without leaving him the chance to get back up, they firmly planted a knee on his chest, and a hand pinned his arm down on the mat. Their blade to his throat finished immobilising him.

“Tell me where Kanako is,” Naomi snarled. “What did you do with her?”

The rage was no longer controlled; there was a tremor in their voice matching the slight trembling of their hand holding Goemon’s arm down. The hand holding the sword, though, was as still as a mountain. The barely contained fury permeating their whole being would have scared the toughest fighter. Yet the samurai’s face was perfectly calm and composed when he answered.

“I have no knowledge of her whereabouts.”

Voice of cold steel against will of fire. Immovable object against unstoppable force. Greatest warrior against his most talented student.

Their grip on his arm grew tighter than a vice, the pressure on his chest turned to an implacable crushing force, without Naomi even noticing.

“LIAR!”

They knew they didn’t have much time. They may have Goemon disarmed and subdued, but that wouldn’t last long if he decided to free himself. 

They also knew that he probably wouldn’t. When Goemon Ishikawa was beaten, he accepted his defeat.

But his partners did not. 

Naomi knew they were lost when the cold steel of a gun barrel was pressed against the back of their head.

“Put. The sword. Down.”

The all-too familiar voice of Daisuke Jigen was harsher than they had ever heard it before. Heart pounding in their chest like a death knoll, Naomi slowly lifted the blade away from Goemon’s neck, released the pressure on his chest, let go of his arm. 

The samurai’s eyes gleamed.

A second later, Naomi was on their back on the tatami, their sword clattering away from their hand, arm painfully twisted behind their back. They tried to fight back, kicking and flailing like a wounded tiger knowing fully well that this was their last fight. 

Then the tip of the Zantetsuken came to rest against their neck like a death sentence.

Naomi stilled. Their fists tightened to white knuckles, and their gaze travelled up the blade of the sword until they met Goemon’s. His eyes were too full of contradictory emotions to be read, but his face betrayed nothing beyond a resigned readiness. Their eyes were still burning with hatred, the hatred of a cornered animal towards their fate. On either side of him, Jigen and Lupin were pointing their guns at them. In the gunman’s eyes, there was incomprehension and anger. In the master thief’s, there was resigned disappointment, and a stone-cold resolve.

“I told you taking a student would not end well,” Lupin said. “It never does.”

“It’s not…” Goemon muttered in response, “this shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t…”

Naomi had heard the stories about Momochi Sandayu and Futaro Jinen, and about their ends. It was no surprise that Naomi's own relationship with their master would end this way.

“What did you do with her?” they repeated through gritted teeth. The unmoving blade of the sword traced a burning line of their neck as they spoke.

“Nothing,” Goemon retorted. “What makes you think we did?”

Naomi’s voice was down to a hoarse whisper, that hid nothing of their tremors.

“I know you took her. She stole from you so you punished her. I came here to get her back. Whatever it may cost.”

Behind the samurai, Lupin and Jigen shared a confused look. If Naomi hadn’t known better, they might think they didn’t know a thing.

“I have not seen Kanako Misuki in five years,” Goemon replied. “And I have no reason to do her any harm. Your behaviour, however, can only lead to one outcome.”

Naomi’s shudders grew deeper, uncontrollable.

“It’s you… Kojima-san said it was you…”

They had to hold on to Kojima’s words, to his proof. They had to hold on to the certainty that they were right, because the opposite was unbearable. Because the opposite would mean that Kanako was lost, that Naomi had been trusting a traitor, that Milo and Hiro were in danger; that Goemon-sensei…

The opposite was not bearable. Not after what Naomi had just done.

Frantic footsteps ran outside the house, and the sliding door suddenly slammed open. In less than a second, two guns were pointed at Hiro and Milo. The two men were standing, out of breath, in the doorframe, hands above their heads, panic eating away at their features. Milo let out a sigh of relief when he spotted Naomi, beaten but unharmed. Hiro tensed.

“Please,” the medic said as he locked eyes with Lupin. “We only want to talk.”

The thief shared a glance with Jigen. Goemon was still turning his back to them, eyes and sword trained on his disgraced student, all senses on the lookout.

“You have one minute,” Lupin declared.

Milo exhaled in obvious relief. This wasn’t much, but they might be able to salvage the situation. To save their friend.

“Kanako-kun has been kidnapped,” he explained. “Kidnapped and… hurt. Badly. We don’t know where she is, and Kojima-san told Naomi-kun that it was you. He’s… Kojima is someone we’ve been working with, he helped us many times, we’ve planned heists together, and he had proof. Compelling proof. Almost irrefutable. And Naomi took it at face value, because it’s Kanako, and it’s Naomi, and they’ve been worried sick, and this was their only lead…”

The words were pouring out of Milo like a torrent, messy and panicked, trying to cram everything into the short chance that he’d been given. Under the pressure of Lupin’s eyes, his voice slowly died down, and he looked at Hiro, silently begging for support.

“We tried to stop them,” the shinobi added. “This should not have happened, and we are sorry that it did. Naomi wouldn’t listen to reason, but you can. Please don’t punish them.”

Lupin remained silent for a moment. Everything was still, there was no sound save for the hitched breath of Naomi, and the young men’s hearts pounding in their ears. Hiro was as tense as a bowstring, ready to throw himself into a fight he prayed to never break out.

“Jigen?” Lupin asked eventually.

The gunman nodded.

“I’ve heard of him,” he replied. “Used to work with the Fuma clan. Officially cut ties with them, but there’s no way he’s gotten over his beef with Goemon.”

The announcement punched all the air out of Naomi’s lungs. They started to shake.

Fuma.

They should have known. Should have seen it. Guessed it, even. With that single bit of information, they would have understood that Kojima had been lying to them. That he had been playing the long game to gain their friendship, gain their trust, then lead them here. Pit them against the one person they should have never lost their trust in. 

The sheer immensity of the mistake they had made hit Naomi. As did the disappointment in Goemon’s eyes.

“I’m sorry…”

The ragged whisper that came out of their throat was barely audible.

Goemon’s blade moved away from their neck, then he swiftly pushed it back inside its sheath. He hadn’t stopped looking at Naomi. The young samurai’s eyes started to well up with tears – of fear, of rage, of horror, they didn’t know. All they knew was that they burned. They sat up on their knees, head bowed down, the only way to escape their former master’s gaze. 

“Please forgive me.”

“You have fallen into a trap,” came Goemon’s voice from above them. “A trap laid for those who listen to their anger instead of their reason and their allies. You still have much to learn, Naomi.”

Someone knelt down next to Naomi – Milo, they realised after a few seconds. His hand softly rubbed their back, trying to calm the uncontrollable shivers that shook them and their trembling voice muttering “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” in a never-ending string. Naomi could barely feel it, overwhelmed as they were by the wave of guilt that had washed over them, menacing to drown everything else.

“Naomi. We need to go.”

Hiro’s voice. Soft yet urgent, pulling Naomi out of the whirlpool of their guilt.

They needed to go.

The young samurai pulled themself up, taking a deep breath as they did. All eyes in the room were trained on them, but they forced themself to remain steady under the pressure of it. Jigen silently handed them their sword; they thanked him with a nod, and put it back in the sheath it should have never left. Then they walked up to Goemon.

His eyes were equal part cold disapproval, and bottomless sadness. Naomi forced themself not to look away.

“What I did was unforgivable,” they declared, trying as much as they could to control the tremor in their voice. “I promise you I will atone for the affront I have done to you. But I need to fulfil my duty first. I must save Kanako. After that is done, I shall regain my honour.”

Goemon only nodded.

“You have nothing to regain,” Jigen interjected. “Just learn, find the bastards who hurt your girlfriend, and don’t fall for their tricks again.”

“Let them do what they need to do,” Lupin intervened.

Naomi turned and bowed to her former mentors.

“Thank you. If we meet again, I shall repay what I owe you.”

The silent air was as heavy as a lead weight, as the three young thieves exited the house.

///

“What did you mean by ‘regain your honour?’”

Milo’s question went unanswered as they walked in silence to their bikes.

“Naomi?” Hiro insisted.

Naomi did not reply. Hiro knew what they meant. 

They did not want to do it. Did not want to think about it. But a samurai who feared death and turned their back on their duty was not a samurai. And if Naomi was not a samurai, they were nothing.