Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Contrary to appearances, Nezumi-Otoko knew precisely what his mischievous little seven year old of a crony was thinking. After all, as soon as his loss is revealed, Kitaro can nary do much but tag along. As a result, Nezumi-Otoko could try as he might to shake him, but there would be no fruition to the effort anyway. From one demon to another, haunting each other wasn’t so bad of a pass time, even if it was a waste. At the very least, he could gloat any moment he wished. That was his one consolation for his cold, and the only reason he would ever miss the Freak Olympics. Unlike some idiotic runt in particular and his so-called noble schemes.

Nezumi-Otoko had climbed at least three centuries beyond the cackling hunchback at his side’s mere decade. He knew what it was like to be old, and for now he would play his part. Even then, he had to shave three years off of Kitaro’s intelligence like the nonexistent head of hair on his root-shaped head. It wasn’t as if Kitaro actually learned anything from his stint as a bureaucratic bodyguard, nor the consequences of getting in over his miserly pig head. He had absolutely no vision for the long term, no genius to his lineage. There was a reason the boy was with him now, rather than frolicking in the sands of Hell. The Olympics were nothing but a school field trip to him, some collection of shabby spectacles that held no candle to the fulfillment of proving himself right. It was only natural a youthful demon wouldn’t be able to grasp how utterly intangible the afterworld was to humans, especially since the significance of Hell’s history was lost on a child such as he. Especially since youth wouldn’t be pried from him easily, hypothetically speaking alone.

Whether or not he was stupid enough to think he could sell real happiness was what bemused Nezumi-Otoko so. Otherwise, wouldn’t he use his ticket to attend for the sake of his own? It was self-evident that the boy was much too bored with Hell’s conventions, yet unwise enough to realize how out of touch with the times he was. He talked big about suckering in more clients, unknowingly and fittingly blind to the fact that his competitor could sell one of the many things Kitaro gave no second thoughts about. It would be so easy to literally strip away his immortality. So distracted by his desire for gratification, Kitaro wouldn’t even notice if his precious chanchanko was swapped until it was far too late for him to do anything about it, but Nezumi-Otoko had his own ingredient this time.

Nezumi-Otoko merely chuckled with him, crookedly entertained by the fact the boy had the nerve to call him hopeless. “That again?”

“Yes,” When the one-eyed boy was bored and the playing field was even like this, he wasn’t only hopeless but incurably naive. He accompanied a man as twisted as Nezumi-Otoko back to his meager refuge, his belly howling as if it wanted to be found by a pack of hell hounds. “I can’t even rely on you to save a stash of dried plums.”

Kitaro was too above him to beg, but too beyond him to catch on to the irony of Nezumi-Otoko’s lacking irritation. “That depends, Kitaro-chan. What were your earnings after hoodwinking yourself of your own ticket? Invitations from the lord himself aren’t ripe to come by.”

Nezumi-Otoko didn’t need to wait long. Kitaro wasn’t thinking twice, judging by the way his back straightened and his leg was propped. “Hoodwinking myself? I hardly agree.”

Well, that was a surprise. It seemed that Kitaro was reluctant to squeal. It could have been so easy for an ear welcoming of yen, but apparently he thought he could distract the older demon’s priorities. He had soaked up enough mockery from the boy. It was time to play his cards as well. “That nonchalance of yours will hurt your chances of profit.”

The buck toothed little punk puckered his lip. Got him. “We both know I’m the victor. You didn’t earn a damned thing because you’re too decrepit and bitter to have a vision like mine.”

“Bibibi!” The proceeding slap was so swift and precise that if his one eye focused enough, it would reel in the after images of the robed rat’s filthy hand. “I will have you informed that my panacea is unlike any in the land! It’s the one and only cure-all in this world!” As boastful as he was in the face of his eternal rival, Kitaro was a malnourished seven year old, and a measly survivor of a near extinct race at that. Whatever mysterious power he had inherited, he fell to the dingy floor easily.

“Ow! Do you always have to hit me when I’m starving and vulnerable?” Kitaro sputtered with his beak shaped lips, sitting up from his humiliating collapse with a narrowed eye. It was pathetic, but he was better off with his head whipped back than his chin in the air like he had some unrivaled wealth of knowledge that surpassed Hell’s history. It was ridiculous, watching his parade of compensation as if it meant anything more than the Olympics below.

“Maybe if you’d listened to your father, you wouldn’t be starving right now. As I was saying, you only have your own carelessness to blame,” Sniffling triumphantly, Nezumi-Otoko stuck out his three tongues and blew a slimy raspberry with the appropriate maturity level of a demon his age.

Kitaro cringed from the squalid ground, for the other’s spit was gleeking onto his face. He didn’t believe for a second what the fusty old rat had to say. If his remedy truly was a miracle, he wouldn’t still be hairless. “Eww, you’re going to give me your plague. Keep your scurf to yourself, you smelly pilgarlic rat!”

Finally, another cruel, haggard laugh ruptured from the rat’s chest, followed by a scratchy slew of coughs. As sick as he was, and as much as he would prefer to be in Hell, it was a great pleasure of his to torment the boy he found such twisted kinship in. Only Kitaro would pointedly obsess over an arbitrary point such as his baldness, even after it had lost it’s relevance. “I will. If you tell me where your cash is. You’re not freeloading here with this elaborate pity party you’ve thrown. Actually, that’s only because I’m almost touched by how you follow me around like some stray mutt.”

“You failed to repair your brain damage, I see. I’m not compensating for anything. I achieved the deliverance I wanted fair and square. Your company is useless to me,” The graveyard boy returned that savage laugh with a subdued but nonetheless malignant smile. For some reason unfathomable to humankind, he was foolishly diverted by this game. The karmic cycle awarded him with the company he deserved, but he celebrated the regalement in good humor. “Where do you get off, treating me like some tenant? You’ve stolen from me time and time again. What makes you think I owe you a thing? I ought to give you a whipping for daring to suggest it! I can haunt where I want.”

Nezumi-Otoko shuddered, but he had one tactic to use in case Kitaro decided he didn’t want to play on equal grounds anymore. He pegged the kid as spoiled enough when he wasn’t getting what he wanted, but easy enough to push around. “You listen to me, you contrary little mule,” Tugging pointedly on the mop headed boy’s ear, Nezumi-Otoko plugged it with a sloppy finger, eliciting a quaking shriek from Kitaro. “Sheesh, pipe down. Don’t pretend I didn’t see you pouting earlier, you self-centered runt. Your old man is very disappointed, you know. You didn’t think even once that he might have wanted to spend quality time with you, and instead you’re messing around here with me! What flattery it is, too! It’s like we’re as close as brothers!”

The horrified squawks Kitaro had been wailing out cut off abruptly as he gagged, using his limited stamina to scrabble away from the disturbingly affectionate rat above. Unfortunately for him, he was easy to snag by the vest. As if that wasn’t insulting enough, when his ear was finally freed, the nasty bastard was rubbing the sticky wax between his fingers. “Stop it, Nezumi-Otoko! Don’t say vulgar things like that!”

Shrugging with a mocking air of disregard and pretending he wasn’t the least bit hurt by the lack of assent, the sickly man snorted and ejected a snotty sputum before dropping the struggling boy on his tail bone. “Big talker. You like it, or else you wouldn’t linger. Just don’t be a pest. I’m not feeling well and I’m not in the mood to babysit a cold-hearted brat like you. I’m turning in for the night, but don’t think for a moment you earned anything.”

“Whatever, skin head. Never, ever do that again,” Kitaro grumbled, watchfully regarding the man as he arranged his futon and crawled in. That was a peculiar change in demeanor, if he’d ever seen one. As if he hadn’t just been traumatized for the rest of his endless life, Kitaro made no reservations about creeping and hovering over the odorous rat, grabbing him by the scruff of his bedraggled robe, and making as if to choke him. His hold was more feeble than expected. “What about me?”

“What about you?” Kicking the boy off of him with ease, Nezumi-Otoko resigned himself to more bickering. “Here you are, mooching off of poor, sick me, and you don’t even do my bidding. You can sleep on the floor and starve for all I care.”

Momentarily deterred, Kitaro rubbed his aching side. He didn’t know which mood he preferred on the scuzzy rat. “The only reason Enma Daio gave you an invitation in the first place was because you’re acquainted with me. If he doesn’t come to your dreams, I will.”

“Anything to convince yourself that you’re resourceful. If it’s that necessary, you can sleep on the couch, but only this once. If you have an accident I’ll beat you up,” Nezumi-Otoko turns his back to the persistent stripling, evoking a witchy cackle from him. Plainly, Kitaro did not take that threat seriously. He couldn’t blame him, with his obvious affinity for filth, but if he had the energy he would anyway. The stretch of quiet and lack of indicators that Kitaro had moved at all unnerved him, though. “What are you waiting for? Get.”

The undernourished half-pint stood over him, whining faintly as his stomach knotted and yowled. It was music to tone deaf ears and pulled no sympathy from the sleepy rat. In fact, it put his spirit to ease. Tactics such as those might have worked on the late Mizuki, but it was Kitaro’s own fault for leading him to Hell in every dimension he roamed. When lofty snores taunted Kitaro’s ears, he heaved indignantly out of his nose, an involuntary whistle sounding from his stubbly snout. He would just have to look for those plums himself. Staggering to his feet, they brushed and stumbled against the floorboards. Reeling over an ebbing sensation of dizziness, he took a moment to prop himself up on the arm of the couch, but sank sideways into the stiff cushion. Maybe after a smoke?

Checking his pockets, the shoat nosed boy snorted in a chapfallen manner. His matchbox was intact, but he must have consumed his pack of Peace entirely. After a moment’s wait and an anticlimactic battle with his stuffy nose, Kitaro used the grievance as fuel to stand back up. Nothing would get his blood pumping like a tasty cigarette. Decidedly, he peeled back the patchy rag that Nezumi-Otoko used for warmth and began frisking. The man shivered under him, not at all appreciating the physical contact with the clammy skinned boy. There wasn’t as much force in pushing him away, but that was out of zonked curiosity. No rest for the wicked, as the saying goes.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, you leech?” Nezumi-Otoko began resisting him, pushing the little miscreant so they were inches apart. Even in the dark, he could make out the impudent, fiendish eye the swellheaded half-yokai was giving him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, but it was unsettling when directed at him personally. What, did Kitaro think he was cute?

“I’m cold,” Kitaro leered, lacking all of the slyness he thought he was made of. “Is this any way to treat an honored guest? Leaving him out in the cold to get sick?” Gesturing with a wave of his arm for the odorous man to behold his dilapidated abode with fresh eyes, Kitaro’s mockery was palpable. Especially when he broke eye contact to gawk at the empty entryway. There was no door to protect them from the hawkish wind outside, not that it would save them much. The floorboards could and have been pulled up before, a good chunk of the walls were cracked or missing, ants were building hills with the dusty soil the wind had pushed in over time, and he had yet to see the condition of the place of convenience, if it existed at all. As things were, life falls hard sometimes and sleeping with a futon right beside the lacking door was just how things had to be; stupid and ridiculous.

“If your remedies are so genius, why have you fallen ill anyway?” Mentally deriding the not so extravagant setup of elixirs in their colorful little vials, Kitaro carped on. “I told you anti-depilatory cream didn’t constitute to anything worthwhile. Any scheme you come up with is hopeless.”

Were all seven year olds as annoying as Kitaro? It was difficult to remember that this was a child he was speaking to, not that his behavior gave him away. Nezumi-Otoko cracked up at the notion of throwing him over a bridge, even though he affectionately considered himself the type that enjoyed the company of kids. “If little honored guests want to snuggle, all they have to do is ask,” The root headed rodent cooed, locking the unfortunate boy in an agonizingly olid hug. Shivering more in disgust than frigidity, Kitaro’s eye began to water. To add insult to injury, those prickly whiskers nuzzled intently against his cheek, stabbing his ear and lower jaw in a way that made him hack and dry heave. If his stomach weren’t empty, he would have hurled all over the repulsive man. “Honoring poor little you won’t comprise the deliverance of mankind, but here we are, wasting our time together like best friends.”

“That’s enough! I concede already!” Gasped the vagrant mop of hair, of which he might as well lose from the stress of his predicament. It wouldn’t be the first time he ran around with a bald head. Nezumi-Otoko slackened his hold on the boy and rolled over to lie on his side, observing his victory elatedly. Kitaro was avoiding proximity altogether in favor of the brisk draft of the doorway. Oh well, he had fled empty handed. Warmth just wasn’t worth it when it was Nezumi-Otoko. Confronting a nippy breeze was obviously the smartest decision he’d made all night, not that this praised his intelligence much. Surely his rivaled astuteness wouldn’t be wasted if he’d only parted ways to begin with. What could he do to to get his bitty hands on a gasper now? He hadn’t planned on a night out as his last one ended dismally, and he was currently suffering the onset of sickness.

It was a good thing he didn’t confess his earnings to the depraved rat, not that he had any intention of doing so this time. The temptation to gloat was at hand, but he more so wanted to squeeze more yen out of him in the form of sustenance if he could. His hands weren’t the only empty thing about him. Stuffing them in his pockets dully, Kitaro began his expanse around the district. “That rat probably holed himself up in his depository just because he couldn’t pay rent anymore. What a joke.”

The teeth of his geta hit the ground with a creaky wooden rap; it was a sound as delightful as a pealing bell. For his ears, it could have filled the emptiness with space, but the interval between his own eerie noise and the blat of a nearby motorcycle easily thundered over his liberation. The ever piping suona he’d stalked was complimented exquisitely, if his noble sentiments had any voice for the moment. Auditory felicity was almost as enticing as quelling the nauseating hunger he’d endured. Well, someone he poked in the butt once told him to go where the money was, and if that wasn’t a rich sound…Half a laugh and half a strangled bark rippled from his smoker’s throat, pulling even dubious ramen vendor eyes into jabbing him with the look of disapproval.

As to not agitate the common folk, he clambered up the dull leaden blue stool with minor issues. The livid thing felt comfortable on his sore rump, and he emphatically sighed so, not even disbursing a five hundred yen note. He observed expectantly, giving no reaction when he was told he couldn’t bum around unless he intended to buy something. The patrons were sparse, some three sheets to the wind and others striking up small talk. If politics could be that, not that opinions or butting heads occurred. Nobody was idiotic enough to speak out of line, as this wasn’t a conference after all. For most of the working class, this was a time to be casual. Even though stalls such as these were no longer illegal, allusions to harder times to break the ice were quite common.

Kitaro, on the other hand, had no class. “You,” He inelegantly accosted the man devouring his wheat noodles, “You’re that guy!”

Pushing up his sunglasses pompously, the man with his lavish stack of ramen bowls straddled his stool. This guy was really full of himself, and appeared doubtlessly fulfilled. Kitaro’s stomach flipped and whimpered at the sight. “Do you know who I am, little man?”

Giving forth the most blank contended eye, Kitaro barely moved his stiff, beak shaped lips as he spoke. It made for a flippantly melancholic voice. “Pardon me, but aren’t you one of those famous people? What’s his name?”

“Do you have a speech impediment or something, dude? You’re mooning over me and it’s weird.”

With enduring longing such as this, Kitaro’s nictating membrane drew across his eye to maintain his appetency. “Might I trouble you to have one mere insignificant bite of pork?”

Expressly shoving a slab of the desired meat into his chops, the beatnik with his too-too spotted sweater refused. “No way, man. I ordered all of this to treat myself!”

“I see,” Kitaro appealed lightly, as if still inwardly begging for scraps. His relent was half-hearted at best. What could he do now, ask how the man’s fiance was? That wouldn’t put him in a favorable spot.

“I won’t allow anybody to have even a speck of my luxury, no matter what happens to them!” Ever the freethinker, this guy. Kitaro noted a fish cake had gotten lost in his bandanna and brooded over whether or not to steal it.

“Do you know who I am?” The scant boy rejoined, giving him rapt attention that he never gave anyone. His vigil became mournful when the fish cake was noticed and done away with down the high-flown hatch of the other. “I have a service you won’t be able to defy.”

“Hmph! You’re that pervy little crook that sexually harassed my ex. It doesn’t matter who you are, you wouldn’t understand something like that. The Whatevers take pride in not being understood!” The implication stagnated in the air not even seconds after the exchange. The yatai vendor was about to cut in, and now things were delicate. He was actually glad most were deterred before the kid could ruin his stall’s reputation even more. This wasn’t just uncouth, it was seedy. For his own mental health, he would shoo him again.

“Kid, the government funds this stall. You can’t sell yourself here, it’ll ruin me. Please go away.”

The loafing straggler and the rapacious consumer reacted in stunned silence and indifference respectively. It wasn’t because his ears were freezing, benumbed, and feverish that Kitaro’s lobes blistered. His entire face was ruddy and raw. He’d meant to pitch his insurance plan to this stooge, not abash himself in the process! Spilling from the stool, Kitaro nursed his nose where it knocked into the ground. With his loss of face, he bowed apologetically and spun around on his heel.

“Hey, Stripes,” The beatnik called, seeming not to care whether or not the time was inopportune. “If you want to know what it takes to be a Whatever, follow me.”

"Oh?" The softly piqued sigh that escaped Kitaro could have formed a question mark if he only had a cigarette right then. As it was, he had no concept of never following strangers. It seemed to be a bad business philosophy, not that he acted out of anything short of childlike gullibility now. With no sense of alarm, he obliged the man’s offer, left his grave error behind him with his folded hands, and observed in an easygoing manner the way the rebellious human stroked his facial hair...

Chapter Text

“For example…Let’s say you want to win over a girl you’ve been eyeing,” The shady man was awarded Kitaro’s utmost intentness, especially regarding the accessory that gave him such a adjective in the first place. Wasn’t it so much harder to see at night with those quirky specs? “A normal person would bear with it if she says no, but a Whatever wouldn’t.”

“Wait, what?”

“A Whatever. They would walk straight up to her…Then they would put their hands on her…Lean in really close…and then they would ask her for dinner,” A hollow sound in Kitaro’s own skull tolled after the slap to the head the eccentric extremist handed him, “You got it? If it costs over six thousand yen, the clerk would complain. But if it costs less, he’ll give me my change back.”

Balking like the wounded animal he was, the cemetery boy stiffened at the punishment his would-be mentor served. He’d hoped to get away from this type of assault. “Yeah, yeah. Seems kinda obvious to me. What if you’re stone broke?”

“Then you sponge off your parents.”

“Gee, what if they have nothing either…?” Tending to the ache in the back of his head, Kitaro tucked his chin and pressed his lips together.

“Then you steal. If you don’t have tons of money and free time, you have no right to be a Whatever. Use your head!” Manifesting a dauntless grin, pork-breath continued his previously venerated lecture.

“For instance?”

“For instance, take a good look at all of those people waiting for the train with their asses lined up, just begging to be pushed off!”

Mislaid, Kitaro faintly looked up at the voluptuary wax-like and with half a heart ventured in butchered tongue, “Bon Vivant, what are you…?”

“The best things in life are free,” Eager to hear the boy cease talking and to hear himself, the covetous man resumed expounding his example with a volte-face, as if everything the boy asked was witlessly inferior. “Notes can’t satisfy the urges I get when I see the hoi polloi standing right on the edge of their lives and at my mercy. They say money can’t buy happiness, and it can, but nothing delivers like the rush you get after taking a risk!”

The enduring plastic eyed stare Kitaro engaged with was preposterously steadfast. It seemed the look was stuck on him, and that he was frozen like that. “So that is your deliverance…”

“Wait! Wait just a second! Don’t be so hasty, boy,” When Kitaro no longer stood as if he was set in stone and rose his pointer finger, he was stopped by an abetting hand grabbing his shoulder. “It feels better to push a woman’s ass. You want to blow off some steam, don’t you? See how much you can get away with? You know this already. Go on.”

The impassive gaze Kitaro was heeding with tweaked a bit. With his jaw slackening, he couldn’t refuse. Taking a deep breath through his stuffy nose, he imagined air compressing and blasting from the work of his fingertips. The seven year old advanced toward his target, treading with his poop needle sticking out. With success, he hadn’t alerted the enemy line to his presence. Not even the clack-clop of his sandals blew his cover. Just to make sure, he surveyed the area and looked to his advocate in the spotted red sweater. The moral support egged him on enough to close in as the deep booms of the thrusting train drew near…

“Enema Pistol--!”

“Why, you horrible little child! How rude!” Except that she easily whirled around as if she had eyes on the back of her head, raised him by his arm, and firmly propelled him with a wrathful stab above his thoracic spine with her studded pumps. The whiplash pulsed in his ears and he dined on sips of his own slaver of blood as his teeth knocked into the railroad tracks below. The engine kicked and screeched as it assailed the beaten rails and creased the boy’s legs. Pistons ripped his skin like wet paper and within seconds the driving wheels each ground his scalp into a pulpy dewberry crisp. Mist like powdered jade and miasma swirled across the sloppy track, covering it in a wispy blanket so the boy’s brains wouldn’t get too cold. The bloodshed was hidden behind a mysterious layer, like an under the rose myth where the bullet train made it’s stop.

“Oh, look out!” A woman clutched her child protectively, unaware of the furtive hand that reached for her wallet.

“Did he get run over?” A priest ventured gravely, unaware of the slippery fingers finding purchase of his yen.

The pickpocket inclined this way and that, even happily overhanging on another man’s shoulder. “What a tragedy,” He repined illegitimately as he took what he wanted and even gained the man’s assent. The poor guy appeared shell-shocked. The mist was thick enough to put out the stars, if only it had a sky to rise to. Nothing could peer through the mess, but the smell of empty bowels and urine was rampant enough to waft among the colorful brume.

As thrilling as the scene was, the larcenist had to be on his way soon, lest he be too close when people noticed their wallets were gone. He had a good glimpse of the driver, whose face gleamed like white ceramic and whose pupils were unaccounted. He didn’t dare touch the woman who’d punted the boy to his death, but so captivated by her similarly vitrified body was he that he’d failed to notice a petite old lady near him until he bumped into her.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” He nodded apologetically, scuttling away before she could soak up more of his time. Miffed by the stranger’s manners, the grainy eyed old woman verged upon the commotion. She was already in a mood upon the insistence of her conferee’s choice of travel, but by the look of the locomotive, she had been stood up on top of that.

“That infantile old lush,” She muttered her malcontent, scanning the fidgety huddle for her unreliable tenant. As she would have feared, he did not appear among them. There was no chance he had any pride, so certainly he would have disembarked by now. He was more likely to get himself into trouble, stumbling around drunk with his rheumatism. “What’s gone on here? Out of my way!”

For one as old and transcendental as she, the thickened haze was no hindrance. Several bystanders called out to her in warning, but she barked at them not to condescend her. The petrified onlookers could only watch in dismay as she hopped down the platform and onto the blood bathed track below. The scene wrapped in the spectral fog amazed even her, for the body below wasn’t her resident sniveler, but the pierced and ruptured remains of a child.

She hadn’t even begun her slow inspection of the mangled body before it’s limbs jerked and trembled like a smashed cockroach, attempting to greet her or ward her away, she didn’t know. The brunch gold threads of the boy’s vest shone, hissed, and rustled like an attenuated garland snake as his bones cracked like hot corn. She didn’t take another step forward, mesmerized by the way the hairs stood on end as the rumpled black stripes breathed and swelled like a suffocating sac. It appeared that the child’s mashed brain was being swaddled up with the rest of him, until all that remained was a firm cocoon. The painful popping sounds ceased, leaving only giggly whispers in succession.

How curious a sight that was, and from such a tiny child at that. After she was sure the peculiar entity had finished what it sought to do, she then made her respectful approach. Her coarse hand sat itself on the lump in attempted commiseration. She was met with no protest, so she couldn’t well leave the mysterious corpse unattended. Her inner nature was far too conscientious beyond her tetchy exterior.

“Just what had a mononoke such as you been up to, ending up like this? I suppose it can’t be helped now,” She mumbled as if to a sleeping child, though that might not have been far from what he was. With a scoop, she picked him up and mindfully held him in her arms. Those that hadn’t dispersed because of their loss of heart were shooed away by streaks of dusty sand as she set off for home. It was just as well, since a certain old fool decided not to inform her before canceling their plans.

Though she was reputably the shrewish manager of her own apartment complex, she lived just as any of her tenants did. It wasn’t any ordinary cold-water residence, only found adrift in a spacial riverside refuge for those that possessed spiritual gifts. To most naked apes, there was little to see but the river. In the same respect as the train that had disappeared after the boy was taken away, so too would the yokai dwelling. Most were poor, pitiable spooks that had lost their livelihoods to time, but she did not put up with layabouts without a fuss.

The small load she carried to her personal den was a different occasion entirely. She had a whetted fondness of communicable experimentation. She wanted to hear what the resting bundle had to say, and more importantly what reactions he would have should she mend him. As a practitioner of dark arts and mixer of macabre extracts since ancient times, even something of this nature wouldn’t drop in her lap easily. If he had been a mere human, he would be among the rest of her additives, but she had other ethics to consider.

“Play nice in the sandbox,” She advised in an even tone, although she assumed that she was the only one to do any playing. He was placed in her zen garden among polished rocks and ceramic figurines. Unwrapping her specimen chanchanko and all was like opening an unpeeled banana, but he didn’t seem to protest. Rather than boiling him in a pot or baking him, her specialized sand could diminish his stench like cat litter. Putting her bamboo broom to work, she whisked his cold skin and buried him with her rake so that only his spongy head and his paper thin legs stuck out. Judging by the activity he’d displayed before she took him, he’d already done a lot of the work in popping his bones back into place and they would heal on their own volition.

The problem areas, on the other hand, would require some outside assistance. Much more bemusing out of the two was his legs. In the four days it took for her treat them, he was most responsive to the the scrub she’d created with mashed snake eyes, frog eggs, and oni sweat. Her icing spatula freed whatever paper paralysis the limbs suffered and made them pop back into proportion after settling, but they were such scraggy legs. Like twigs, even. It made her wonder if she’d done a shabby job, especially since his skin was still crumpled. It wasn’t something time wouldn’t fix, but she had to make sure his mashed brains could still communicate with the rest of him. Could his body still survive if she tampered with his core?

“I’m going to need a sample,” She warned, stretching out his stale tongue and pricking it’s underside with her fingernail. A puny protest was made, but the infant soul that resided in his liver was crawling his way up and into her hand. “So that is what your inner spirit looks like. You’re even younger than you look. Perhaps you are a mononoke that died with your mother during childbirth.”

It wasn’t a mere suggestion or a question. The unusual part was how his body had survived and grown. This boy would likely never see spiritual adulthood in that case, with such a sickly soul. As the waxen babe scooted his butt across her palm like an itchy dog, she poked him chidingly. “Hey! None of that. You must have reverted since you injured your head, rather. You had best behave yourself or I won’t use my emergency artifact.”

“Injured,” The chalky toddler echoed, literally knuckle under. The hag’s hand was far too rugged on his spotless butt crack anyway. His glassy face implored the look of surprise he was given.

“Shrewd, aren’t you?” The hag marveled, doubtless. His very gaze was vacant, but it couldn’t be to taunt her. “In the garden outside, I’ve been manifesting a powerful Nade-Ushi from the barren remains of the Hirakawa Tenmangu Shrine. If the power of your prayer is strong enough, your body may be restored. You must pay fervent worship to the situated ailment.”

“Worship?” Conviction was absent from his searching tone.

“You must rub the Nade-Ushi’s head,” She explained at an unusual pace of indicated patience. Contrast that to her brisk shuffling and it was clear she felt some urgency. “Come, we will do this quickly. We don’t want your head to heal itself unattended.”

The dusty old hag delicately rose the teensy ikisudama within reach of the imaginary occipital bone of the reoriented statue. She held him with her finger so that he wouldn’t reach too far and fall over. His arms were significantly more stubbly than those of the body he rode in, making each stroking glorification increasingly fatiguing. Just as he was about to be scolded for his slacking, a broad crack split athwart the ox’s base, precisely where it had been rubbed. An anguished cry burst from and with the crumbling faux bronze cast. It was merely a manifestation of the former piece, and could not bear it’s form any longer after it’s purpose was fulfilled.

The ikisudama of her specimen was trifling, but it seemed to put him at an unprecedented advantage. His decent was almost feathery, and he landed on the ground with deft feet only a supernal sprite or a touchy cat could be endowed. With the gift of such lower dynamism, it was no matter of contention for him to spring himself to the summit of her head. Her mouth parted as he slid down the threads of her peppery gray hair and into the palm of her hand.

“Feeling better already?” She smirked, unseen behind her other sleeve. As if she wouldn’t spare the lost statue more thought, she walked him back to her den. The body she returned to had hairs whipping to and fro like entranced serpents.

Folding his arms over his chest, the ikisudama piercingly crowed at the sight of his body, wickedly gladdened by it’s distrait attempts to dance. “I am compelled to return.”

The hag parted the boy’s jaws open helpfully, giving the diminutive spirit clear access to dive down and nestle himself back into his home. This ceased the stirring of his hair, and a serene sigh retreated from his lungs as he slumbered. His legs had begun to shed their skin while she was away, of which she would refine like one would a snake’s pen. Once his weedy legs were shiny and refreshed, she attempted to bury them. In his sleep, he popped them right back out. It wasn’t anything she cared to contend with.

Everything was virtually silent, other than the fluent river outside, the crickets, and the stuffy snores of her former specimen. If she had to describe her surroundings with one word, tranquil would be a promising candidate. However, one such as she could see beyond that. It was spiritual how the darkness and malignity her new companion had exuded vanished. There was now something delicate and fateful about watching over the sleeping child. Just as she thought of how nice it would be to let her consciousness subside also, a bombarding, hysterical wail burst through the thin walls like a tempest.

“You cheated! You aren’t playing by the rules! How could you, Amamehagi-san?” The upheaval jolted her to chagrined attention, and her guest to disfavored awareness. When the enervated child began to stir, the hag smoothed her fingers over his mucky fringe. Slowly, like a sheet of ice, his eye cracked open.

“I’m terribly sorry, child. I will be right back,” Her voice reassured as a particulate, yet appeasing sound. Nonetheless, dopey whining burbled from the back of his throat as his tongue played around inside his mouth. When his overbite joined his top and bottom teeth, he felt the granules. Licking his molars, Kitaro dully listened to the commotion his apparent mender had left to quell, pondering how he even ended up in such a place.

”Konaki! I advised you to keep your voice down! Our guest is trying to sleep! Be a good sport and let Amamehagi claim his victory!” Jabbing a finger in the chest of the balky old geezer, she berated him with such familiarity, one could mistake them for a couple. Poor Amamehagi, on the other hand, looked as if in the process of passing out. He swayed to and fro on his cushion, barely keeping it together. “You’re harassing my other tenants again!”

“Sunakake, I don’t wanna!” Slurred the weepy drunk, “You’ve been giving that mangled corpse all of your attention! Just throw him in the river already, or make him come play!”

“Do you want to pay Amamehagi’s rent this month? It’s time for a nap, I say!” Inexorable to his cries, she threatened him and scolded him in a way that Kitaro wanted never to be in the brunt of. Rubbing some crusty mucous from his eye did little to appease it’s heaviness. Covered in sand as he was, it was worsened. It was some time before things became silent again, but that only made Kitaro curious. Whatever could she be doing, rocking him to sleep?

When she returned, he was in the middle of a whopping yawn, arms stretched above him and sand falling from his chest where he sat up. “Wide awake now, are you? Does anything hurt?”

Rather than try to stifle his reflex, her peculiar specimen sighed out his enlivened inhalation as if reveling in the act. “I’m cold and thirsty,” He readily complained, scratching at and removing his bandages. “Where am I?”

“Why, you’re in Sunakake-Babaa’s apartment complex,” The shaman introduced, pointing him in the direction of a dish full of water beside the bed of sand in which he lied. “It’s safe to drink.”

Obliging all offers he was given, Kitaro guzzled the contents of the dish, sopping his tongue and sloshing it all around his mouth. Anything to do away with the dry, bitter taste. He let out the breath he’d been holding and lavished in the generosity bestowed upon him. “I’ve never heard of it,” He responded, wording no gratitude.

“That is because it is hidden in a place called Yokai Alley,” Sunakake-Babaa further equipped his limited knowledge, considerate in that he looked understandably out of sorts. “While you’re awake, we might as well put you in some warm clothes. You’ve been lying in that sand for the better half of the week. Do you know what happened to you? Is your eye hurting?”

The empty, half-lidded expression he stared with jerks, if only for a second. He almost smiled, his sand covered belly twinging with what might have been a suppressed laugh. His surrogate grandmother always hated when he tittered. It looked painful at first, but he let his grin arch and dimple his cheeks. With a finger, he uprooted the eyelids he kept squinted shut. The hollow socket was a cavernous tunnel, rings of sensitive flesh barely visible in the meager light. A pang of concern she respired, the attention he was getting apt to further inspire. “Indeed, I would like some clothes. You would not have me dirty them, would you?”

“That doesn’t hurt you at all? Who are you?” Sunakake-Babaa riveted her own eyes at him, for she didn’t recall ever treating his eye. Was that why although the rest of him was restored, his eye did not? Guilt stirred in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m Hakaba Kitaro, hee-hee! Want to touch it?” He crooned, prying in search for her inevitable disdain. She neared up to him, rather, brassy and inquisitive enough to get a closer look. That she could tell, he had no conformer protecting him.

“Stop playing inside your socket. You’ll get an infection,” The hag admonished, taking him by the hand. “Come, you need a hot bath and to clean around that eye. Be careful standing up.”

True to her warning, the youth’s spindly legs were delicate when he arose. Though he passed her no huff, his lips contracted as he dusted the clingy seeds of sand from his body with his free hand. Despite his aberrant display, Sunakake-Babaa was unremitting and even if he didn’t say so out loud, Kitaro was incontestably baffled. The smile left his eye as she led him to the furo he would use after his rinse. Seating him on the bath stool with traces of a choppy chuckle, the old woman regarded him as if he was as limpid as the lukewarm water she would use to fill her bucket.

“Now, now. If you don’t stop pouting like that, I’ll kiss you,” She imperiled him while rolling her sleeves, hoping to get a rise after he’d flaunted his foreboding social graces. When the bucket became full, she brought it back to the boy and turned it over his head. Not only was she desensitized, but also vivaciously crafty.

The nonplussed boy crinkled his nose and sniffled, his soppy fringe hiding his eyes. Kitaro was many things, and he loved to push his luck, but this time he was unprepared. He wasn’t used to old ladies playing tricks on him. No, he was much more accustomed to being bashed by drumsticks, not that he was vigilant in the least. “No fair,” He spluttered as if he’d been hit by a bombshell, “My back was turned! I can’t see!”

“No?” The old hag nudged him, presenting him with a bar of soap as if to pacify any hard feelings. She would have waved it in front of his face, but he hadn’t bothered to brush his wet bangs from his useful eye. Instead, he searched for her offering with his fingers, or would have if she didn’t lightly slap them away from her face. “Okay, okay. Be still and I will wash your back.”

Holding his arm out, she began to scrub the lanky limb up and down, testing the flexibility of his shoulder joint in the process. She had wiped him down several times while he was unconscious, but he was long overdue for a bath, perhaps even before his accident. The only remark between them was the whimper of fluffy white suds that began to wisp up from her ministrations. Kitaro bore no ill complaint, having only been washed like this by his adoptive father years ago.

When she began folding and observing the motion of his elbow, he let her, almost as if on his best behavior. When she began rubbing down the underside of his arm and lathered over his cutaneous nerve, he sent the bar flying from practically hammering his elbow into his side and confiscating her weathered hand. It knocked right into her forehead and fell to the floor with a slap. A crackle in his throat and a puffy exhale recoiled and caught her by surprise, if only for a moment. She almost froze, waiting none too patiently for him to release her. She sweeped away his hair with her free hand and studied the unyielding delight that wrinkled his remaining eye.

“Shame on you,” Sunakake-Babaa ribbed, catching onto his anticipation. His laugh was tempered in a staid manner, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Not even if she was growing soft on him. Nevertheless, she retrieved the block of soap and resumed, this time rubbing circles onto his hunched back. “What is it about you that inspires you to get into so much trouble?”

Instead of giving a straightforward answer, he hummed his revelry. He hadn’t been willfully doted on like this for as long as he could remember. “This is nice…”

Sunakake-Babaa did not pause to think about how much that said. Rather, she responded in kind by tracing the protruding edges of his spine and rolling her fingers deep into his knots. This enlivened his nerves so, he couldn’t help the swindling giggle that escaped him. “What, not even so much as a thank you?”

She received a blithe sigh. She supposed that was as much gratitude as he was capable of, but he threw his head back to look at her, inadvertently flinging water in her face with his hair. That was it. The final straw. “Thank you.”

“What?”

“The best things in life truly are free,” Kitaro continued, as if musing.

Sunakake-Babaa fell quiet, unperturbed by how idiosyncratic his words were. They didn’t add up, even coming out of the mouth of someone who was recently overthrown by a train. Not someone like him, anyway. However, it didn’t annoy her. It piqued her curiosity in that she felt bilked somehow. Deciding to take it out on him once again, she turned over another full bucket of water over his head. It splashed about and ran down his arms in rivulets and onto the tiled floor.

This time, Kitaro tensed and cried out indignantly, “That water’s too cold!”

Paying little heed to his objection, Sunakake-Babaa began tussling his hair and scratching his scalp, which pacified him immediately. His hair played back, wiggling between her fingers like baby snakes and coiling around her wrist affectionately. Precisely the way his adoptive grandmother would have hated it.

“Brace yourself,” She warned him this time, but probably only because she did not wish for any of the lather to irritate his eyes. Warm water crashed onto the top of his skull and he held his breath, wringing some of his hair once she was done. She instructed him to get into the bath, lifting him up cautiously by his underarm. He stepped in gingerly, testing the temperature with his toes just in case she just wanted to clean him up so she could cook him.

Once the child had adjusted and sunk down into the wooden bath, Sunakake-Babaa fetched a woolly towel and washcloth. She set the former aside for the time being, then dunked the cloth in his bath. Kitaro watched fixedly as she gave it a twist, the excess water splattering back into the bath. Questioningly, he read her face.

“How’s the water? Not too hot?”

“Terrific,” He approved, his buck teeth grazing against his bottom lip. He didn’t stop heeding her, a vacant, maladjusted aimlessness derived from his lone eye.

Thoughtful herself, Sunakake-Babaa took his small chin in her hand, observing as he blinked curiously. “Why don’t you scoot a little closer? I will wash your face.”

Minding her suggestion, he let her stroke his face with the washcloth. The remnants of oil and grime were kneaded away by her thumb, favorably furbishing his cheeks. She smoothly glossed over both of his eyelids and lashes, patting them dry, to his indulgence.

“Open up,” Sunakake-Babaa coaxed, then began wiping inside his hollow socket. Nerves began to tremble, and she noted his lips were twitching even after he puckered them. “You’ve done this all by yourself with no help, haven’t you?”

That might not have been true, but Kitaro didn’t want to think about his father right then. The old man probably thought of it more like an abode than part of him. Instead, he let her question hang. She wiped toward his ear with such care that it tickled. It took all of his self-control not to squeeze his eyelids together, with or without her finger between them. Yes, it was technically true. Even when he was taught how, it wasn’t ever out of affection. Guilt and necessity, more like. When she finally withdrew, he released the tension in his jaw and the breath he’d held.

“Thank you,” Kitaro stammered as if it were some kind of confession. It was probably the first time he had said so to her unprompted.

Considering his reaction, she dipped her head in acknowledgment. She had many questions, but the boy had only just woken up, and whether he admitted it or not, was definitely distressed after whatever had happened. She couldn’t expect much more from a child, monster or not.

“You’re very welcome, dear. You may soak for as long as you like, and I know you’ve only been up for a little while, but don’t fall asleep in the tub. If you need me, just give a yell.”

Just like that, she left him to enjoy his soak. It was as if none of it had ever happened. The banter, the playing, the good will; nothing. Then it all came back to him and he snickered. If only to himself for now, he had to admit he had been foolish. At the very least, Nezumi-Otoko had not caught him red handed, and his new friend wouldn’t have to know anything he withheld from her. Even better was the twinge of fear he felt at the prospect. He had misunderstood the idea of deliverance entirely. No one in their right mind cared about the distant future, because then they had to own up to the fact that someday, everybody died. He could never fully understand the fear of death that they had, could he? There were plenty of times he came so close…

This was his mistake. Nezumi-Otoko was right, the bastard. It didn’t even matter in the moment, and it shouldn’t have mattered right then, but somewhere that twinge grew and he remembered his first love. It wasn’t even all that fun, indecency out of spite. He wanted to honor her by honoring his fallen tribe, but he also wanted her to hurt as much as he did. Could he not handle his own version of death? It seemed that whenever he tried to dishonor her and prove her right, the pain increased evermore. Sinking his mouth into the bath, he began imitating a motorboat as he pondered.

“How heavenly,” Kitaro exhaled thickly, looking every bit like a chip off of the old block, if only more gloomy. The contours of his face were tight, but with time he eased off. It was no fun feeling like he was always in his father’s shadow.

When he put on some warm clothes and left, he would go out and search for that slimy beatnik and demand his share of the spoils. Besides his spectacle in of itself, it was a lot of work putting in all of this emotional labor. Huffing steam from his snout, he mindfully climbed out of the furo and toweled himself off. Even though he wasn’t feeling like himself, he was still put off by how weak his body had felt. He stepped out of the room and the cold air hit him in a formidable wave. He hollered for Sunakake-Babaa and to his surprise, she wasn’t that hard of hearing.

“I left some clothes for you to sleep in by the door. Did you not see?”

Kitaro shook his head.

“Well, that’s all right. I will be in the kitchen while you change. I’m finishing our meal. I know you must be starving, so don’t overexert yourself.” She had to return to her boiling bamboo shoots to season them, but promised to come check on him if he took too long.

It was humbling, if not embarrassing, since all she had left him was a striped jinbei. He threw on the pine colored jacket and shorts with an overweening grunt. It wasn’t that he disapproved, for the set was snug, if not a little loose on him. It was just the way she made her comments. He ignored the socks she left him and went into a room with a kotatsu, dragging his feet in the process. Assuming it was as close to a family room as it could be, he sat next to the table in wait.

In minutes, Sunakake-Babaa had finished and came to set the table, she returned to the sight of Kitaro helping himself to the tea she had left in the kettle. Simmered bamboo shoots and rice were in season, but she hadn’t thought to ask him how he might prefer it. “What might your favorite takenoko dish be, Kitaro?”

Whatever he could get his hands on, likely. He was already reaching for a bowl for his rice, but her glare made him retract his hand. More than a little red behind the ears, he answered, “Tempura is delicious.”

“I was just kidding, child. Go on and I will give you some rice and pickles,” As long as no one was watching them, she wouldn’t jump down his throat if he didn’t want to thank anyone for the food. She had a traditional mindset, but both of them were yokai. She did believe he could use a lesson in gratitude, but he seemed like the rebellious type. It wouldn’t stick without trickery.

With a heavy eyelid, Kitaro held out his empty bowl once more and she packed it with the starchy appetizer. He might not have been the most polite, but other than spoken words he hadn’t any notable issues with table manners. Even though it was obvious he hadn’t had a nourishing meal in days, if not much longer, he ate as if he were already full. The more he picked, the more he could savor the crunchy texture of the bamboo she’d boiled just for him. According to her, the other two had eaten before his rude awakening and he was the only one unaccounted for.

“Thanks for the meal,” The youngster divulged as if it was normal to clasp his hands ceremoniously after having devoured not one, but three servings. Indeed, this boy seemed to prefer doing things on his own time and his own terms. His face indicated that he was enthralled by his actions.

Sunakake-Babaa should have been more bothered by it, but instead she found herself conflicted. The way he sat there, absorbing her scrutiny, it was as if he was about to rub his hands together like a fruit fly. She stood up and motioned for him to follow, only stopping him to tell him to pick up after himself. The two washed their respective utensils in affable silence, until she spoke the nagging question on her mind.

“Where are your parents? You haven’t asked for anyone and you aren’t anxious in the slightest,” She ventured, a nosy old woman at heart. She could have kept the question simple, but he was a sinister sort, which made her more inquisitive. The brutal glee that curved his lips faltered in the light she’d shed on his circumstances.

“Oh,” Kitaro turned his head away, intoning dismissively as if untroubled. “In Hell.”

Sunakake-Babaa dropped her bowl, too aghast to save it in time as it shattered into fragments on the floor. Cursing, she began collecting them so the child wouldn’t accidentally step on any. How the boy could start cackling like he did, she was too riled to care. Even if she could appreciate his humor, she did not fancy being caught unsuspecting by someone who couldn’t hope to equal her age.

“Sorry about the bowl, Sunakake-Babaa,” Kitaro giggled, squishing his own cheeks puckishly.

“You’ll pay back your debt, boy. Mark my words,” She lunged, just missing him by a hair as his feet puttered out of the kitchen before she could scold him. Dinner had given him much more energy than she could have anticipated. Who knew his little legs could carry him so far? “Kitaro! You better not be hiding under the kotatsu!”

Another titter gave him away. Before he could do anything to stop it, she pulled him out from under the table by the ankle and peppered him with firm kisses that made the inner baby boar inside him squeal. Rasping and crowing, it was the best he could do to lie there and take it. This time, even if he fussed more, he didn’t mind being at the mercy of a irascible old hag. Still, it wasn’t something his nerves were used to, so he begged for forgiveness far sooner than his pride would let him admit.

“Not until you’ve paid me back in full!” Sunakake-Babaa recurred, ruffling his damp hair resolutely. Though, she did let up a little so he could breathe. He’d pressed his face into the fabric of her checkered obi, hiding from her endearment and smothering himself in the process. He worded something that muffled against her lap. “Now, why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

When she urged Kitaro to look up at her, his face was burning up and he wasn’t feeling so rowdy anymore. After a stretch of time, he mumbled, “Mom died giving birth to me. I’m the last affiliate of the Ghost Tribe that’s alive.”

It was similar to her musings before, but something new washed over Sunakake-Babaa when he said so himself. The Ghost Tribe were more elusive than even the forgotten dynasty of the Ryuku islands. She had only ever heard myths of their existence, even in her three thousand years of life. Even though she led a life that begrudged humans and their government for their continued attempts to suppress spiritually powerful women like herself, she could not fathom the shoes he had to fill. Scratching at dirt and suffering from inequality since the dawn of time in infinite starvation with no signs of it ever relenting for generations to come…

“Tomorrow I am going to see about placing a conformer in your eye socket,” Sunakake-Babaa promised delicately, deciding it was the least she could do. Some form of morose pride swelled in her chest at having given this boy a satisfying meal. “Kitaro, have you ever wanted a prosthetic? Somehow, I can have that arranged for you.”

Hushful and unstirring, Kitaro contemplated her as if she had grown two heads. “I don’t know. I’ve never been asked that before. Aren’t I already in your debt?”

With a finger, she lightly tapped her cheek.

“Huh?”

“Maybe I will waive it,” She suggested, teasing him solicitously for his puckered lips. Just as she thought he was about to catch on, another fly catching yawn consumed his words. “Ah, but negotiations can wait. You’re a very sleepy boy, aren’t you? Would you like your own room, or have you grown attached to mine?”

As Kitaro would have it, she prepared him a room. He murmured something about not wanting to sleep in the sandbox. Sunakake-Babaa didn’t correct him, for he was no longer listening. His spurt of energy earlier might have been his last reserves for the night after all. She tucked him in, absent of the stern wariness Mizuki always guarded himself with. Out of preference, Kitaro kicked his feet out from under the blanket. He was reminded that if he needed anything, he knew where to find her. Not even half an hour later, find her he did. Sunakake-Babaa awoke to a forty pound boy crouching on top of her, idly playing with his eyelids.

“What’s the matter? Nightmare?”

“No,” He denied, mentally justifying that a bad dream wasn’t always a scary one. “I woke up with a bug in my eye but if I touch it, it might piss on me.”

“Well, get up and I’ll see what I can do,” Sunakake-Babaa groaned, her joints popping every bit like they belonged to an old woman. She turned on all lights in the room and pried his eyelids apart to get a closer look. She withdrew from him shortly after, quizzical and although she was groggy, her temper was replaced by some sort of budding amusement.

“What?”

“You’re not fooling me. There’s no bug in there, you rotten child,” The crone pointed out, lightly stroking a finger over the closed shell of his eyelid. “You already have my attention. You don’t have to dupe me into getting it. What is it that really brought you here?”

Once again, the shrewd old bag had rendered him reticent. “I like when you look at my eye,” He confided, unsure of what else he could say. It was the best he could do to read her motions helplessly while she turned the lights off again. She lied back down, folding her blanket over her as she waited for him to speak.

“Come here, Kitaro,” She invited him, patting the space she’d left him so he could lie down with her. She couldn’t see it until he crept close, but the ruthless edge to his smirk was replaced by an ebullient grin. Kitaro creased up, the gravelly crackling of his chortle slackening in his throat in such a way that would become familiar. Listening to his thinning laughter, she couldn’t help but notice how it seemed to lack it’s sepulchral knell.

“You’re so warm…” The demonic progeny creaked, burrowing his head close and adoring the creeping sensation of being held.

“You’ll never get to sleep if you keep giggling like that,” Sunakake-Babaa shushed him, furthering his rocking torso. She was right; if he didn’t stop, he might cry. Sleep didn’t come easily for those who wept. “Goodnight, Kitaro.”

In the moments that followed, Kitaro tasted the possibility of deliverance. For the first time, he reciprocated. He clung to that inviolable feeling, because that twinge was back, and this time it was throbbing. It stuck out in his mind like some kind of taunt or clemency. Shutting his eye, Kitaro wondered when he ever bothered to ask for acquittal. The taste was soured, but his smile didn’t budge.