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Sunday morning, Shiro goes to the fencing hall for his daily drills. He bumps into Logan, they spar, and Shiro realizes that he knows more about Logan's past than Logan does. Plans are made to contact Mariko Yashida and get her professional opinion.



Shiro wanted to kick something. The past week had been beautiful weather-wise, but today it was raining hard. And that meant to sword fun outdoors. That left the fencing hall. And while it was not Shiro's favorite venue, it was the only other choice. So he made his way down there, katana in hand, hoping he could at least find some privacy.

Logan's bare feet tapped lightly on the hardwood floor of the fencing hall, his katana making a soft whooshing sound as it sliced through the air. He hadn't used the katana since his sparring session with Betsy, months ago, but it still felt as though it were an extension of his arm, its weight settling easily in his hand.

Shiro just barely kept himself from swearing when he opened the doors to the fencing hall. As luck would have it, there was already someone there. An adult no less, who would likely scold him for using the room without permission. But then he recognized Logan and felt relieved. The one teacher who seemed to appreciate the value of constant and uninterrupted training. He entered, closing the doors behind him and watching Logan's movements. He nearly dropped his sword in surprise. "Fukanou," he breathed, eyes widening. Impossible . . .

Logan heard the door open and close, and Shiro's whisper, but he finished out the form before he turned to face the boy who'd interrupted his training. "Need somethin'?" he asked, noticing that the boy hadn't moved to begin his own training yet.

Without hesitation, Shiro drew his katana and flew forward. He held it in what should be an easily recognizable position, ready to attack the moment he was close enough. If he was right, Logan would instantly recognize the move and easily counter it. If he was wrong, though . . . well, Logan had a super healing factor, so it wouldn't be a problem.

Logan's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but he took half a step to the left, raising his katana to block the attack. Steel crashed against steel and screeched as the katana slid against each other, Logan's effectively stopping the forward motion of Shiro's. "Need somethin'?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Dare?" Shiro asked in amazement as he stepped back, all but staring at Logan. He had dropped his scabbard over by the doors and made no move to retrieve it. "Gai-jin da kedo, ore no kazoku no himitsu o wakaru . . . Wakaranai."

Logan didn't even realise Shiro was speaking Japanese. "Your family's secrets, huh? Kid, you probably know more'n I do 'bout it."

"Where did you learn to fight?" Shiro demanded as he got into a kata, obviously intent on a spar to determine the extent of Logan's knowledge. "There are only a few people in the world who fight like you do, and I know all of them."

Logan shrugged and settled into the ready position opposite Shiro. "I'm guessin', based on what yer sayin', that I learned in Japan."

"'You are guessing?' I do not understand." Shiro moved forward to attack first, a simple technique that anybody who knew their way around a katana would know and know how to block. "Either you know or you do not. It's not like years of training is easy to just forget."

Logan blocked the attack, going on the offensive with an easily recognizable technique. "Mebbe not. 's not easy t'be missin' more'n a hundred years a mem'ries, either, but y'don't hear me complainin' 'bout it."

Shiro spun to the side, barely dodging Logan's katana, and quickly got into a defensive stance. He knew that Logan was good in a fight, really good, but to know the Yashidas' style? He had to be even better than that. "How did you forget a hundred years of your life?" he asked, more concerned with the fighting than with the fact that Logan just admitted that he's over a hundred years old.

Logan continued on the offensive, shrugging one shoulder. "Good question."

"Dou shite wakaranai?" Shiro asked, slipping back into Japanese as he put more effort into avoiding Logan's attacks than talking.

Logan's movements were smooth and easy as his katana slid through the air. "'Cause I don't." He sighed. "There was an experiment, I think. They fucked up my head. Can't remember shit, past about fifteen years ago."

Shiro stepped back, putting some space between them to give him a chance to catch his breath. Logan barely looked like he was breaking a sweat, but Shiro could feel exhaustion coming on. He would call off the spar in a little bit, but first he had to make sure that the older man really did know the Yashida style. Adjusting his footing and his hold on his sword, he prepared to get on the offensive. The technique he was ready to use was one of Keniuchio's favorites. Not a particularly complex one (at least not compared to some of the other things Keniuchio knew), but one that few would be able to counter properly without losing a few fingers in the process. "Sou ka?" Without another word, he lunged forward and attacked.

Logan's eyes narrowed and he stepped back, spinning the katana blade-down. He blocked the attack with enough force that both blades shivered reflexively for a few seconds after.

"You must have been taught by my family." Shiro lowered his sword and took a few steps back. The few short moments of exertion had him breathing heavily, so he was done for the time being. "The way you hold your sword, the way you move, the fact that you knew how to counter all of my moves . . ."

Logan, too, lowered his blade. So, he'd been taught by the Yoshida family... "Nobody else knows this style, huh?"

Shiro made his way back to the doors to grab his scabbard and sheath his sword. "No. It is a very old style that has barely changed over hundreds of years. It is very, anoo, dated. But in the way volcanoes or earthquakes or tidal waves are ancient, ne? Even the other 'old' families that claim to have kept tradition alive since before Meiji do not fight like the Yashida."

Logan fingered the edge of his blade, blood welling up. The cut healed immediately. Perhaps that was where he'd gotten the sword, too. "So ya can't tell when I learned it, then."

"No." He frowned when Logan cut himself. "May I see your sword?" he asked, approaching him.

Logan eyed Shiro, then nodded, passing the katana over to the boy without a word.

Inclining his head just slightly in a respectful gesture, Shiro accepted the sword. It had a very similar feeling to his own, and he swung it a few times to get a feel for it. "Hee!" he gasped as he caught sight of the etching on the blade by the crossguard. "Kore wa . . . This is a Kazanbai katana."

"You recognize the maker?" Logan had never thought to research the name on his katana to find out about his past.

"Of course," Shiro responded as if that were a dumb question. "The Kazanbai smiths are one of the best families of swordmakers in Japanese history. They have been making swords for my family for generations." He handed Logan back his katana and withdrew his own again, showing Logan the same kanji and design on his blade.
Logan looked at Shiro's blade and nodded, recognizing the familiar design and kanji. He walked to the wall where he'd left his scabbard and sheathed his katana, then turned to Shiro. "Didn't think I'd find anythin' out so...easy, 'bout my past. Huh."

"Onee-san might know . . ." Shiro said, more to himself than Logan. "A foreigner who trained in bushido with our family. She would . . ." His eyes widened as he realized something, and he slowly turned to Logan. "You. I know who you are! I have heard stories." He mentally slapped himself. "Why did I not realize until just now?"

Logan raised an eyebrow. "So who am I?"

"My cousin used to tell me stories of a foreigner who was adopted by great-grandfather and his clan. He had performed some service for them and they agreed to teach him bushido. He was an excellent warrior, so good that they almost went so far as to call him a samurai."

Logan looked at the scabbard in his hands and nodded. "Sounds about right."

"I-I wish I could remember more, but those were bedtime stories Mariko used to tell me, so I do not remember them well. I can ask her, though."

"Thanks," Logan said, looking at Shiro again. "I'd appreciate it."

"I would think that you would be more excited about this," Shiro said wryly, looking back at Logan.

Logan raised an eyebrow. "I'll be excited when I know somethin' more'n the name a th'family that taught me." He sighed, then nodded. "I've spent a long time lookin' for information 'bout my past. Seems to good t'be true, stumblin' on some like this."

"Unless you stole that sword and somehow stole some old man's memories, then you are him." Shiro grinned. "Mariko is going to want to meet you. She will probably be on the first plane here ready to interview you."

Logan laughed. "Guess it's not often y'get ta meet somebody yer great-grandfather taught, even if he don't remember it."

"She has dedicated her life to Japanese history. America loves to pretend that there was a wealth of White samurai," Shiro barely stopped himself from spitting at the thought (oh how he hated The Last Samurai), "But there were in fact only two. One of them served Shogun Tokugawa, and you are the other. Any good historian would jump at the chance to speak with you. And Mariko is the best."

"Don't think I'm gonna be able t'tell 'er much, but she's welcome t'ask," Logan said, shrugging again. He shifted his grip on the katana in his hand and nodded at the door. "I'll let y'get some trainin' done. I was just about finished anyhow." Logan walked to the door and, as he pulled it open, he nodded at Shiro. "Thank you."

Shiro just bowed without saying a thing in response. As Logan left the room, Shiro withdrew his sword again and began his daily drills. He could not wait to tell Mariko about this.


Translator's notes:
Dare? Gai-jin da kedo, ore no kazoku no himitsu o wakaru . . . Wakaranai. "Who are you? You are a foreigner but you know my family's secrets . . . I don't understand."

Dou shite wakaranai? "Why don't you know?"