Author: Guede Mazaka
It hadnít been Boss Matsumoto, though heíd gotten her started. And it hadnít been Bill, charming as the man certainly was and deft as his hands could be. No, when he had had O-ren, her mind had been miles away. Heíd known, she thought, and so he had ever afterward kept their relationship smooth and unruffled and most importantly, distant. She had been his protťgťónot his lover, not his wildcat comfort, his brother or his faithful second.
Basin City: O-ren was not yet O-ren but someone else, some girl only four years from her first kill and her revenge and still young enough to be drunk on her job. She had come to take some Italianís head and she had done it cleverly. Cleanly. Perfectly. Till she had wandered through the redlight district to amuse herself with gazing on those too weak and fallible to discipline themselves, to focus on lifting themselves from the day-to-day struggle. Then she saw a flash of silver on a rooftop and she saw a silhouette, and both were sleeker and quicker than herself.
Rooftop: Her outrage had grown when she had seen the wielder of the other sword, for the girl was only a little older than her and had the slanted eyes of O-renís father, and it struck her not as mirroring, but mimicking. And that was an insult not to be borne. She was going to be the best in the world, and this half-dressed whorish imitation sullied her goals by merely existing.
In the girlís eyes was nothing O-ren could read. She drew and she saw how the edge of her blade was reflected back at her. The beautiful shimmer nearly distracted her.
The girl flicked the blood off her blade and took a stance. They stood on the roof, each trying to slip into the mind of the other and so win the fight before a move was made. O-ren looked deep and long, and she saw so many flaws in the girlís eyes.
Concrete: It rasped O-renís skin, left dark stinging specks in the scrapes. She gasped, felt the burn go down her throat on the inside and on the outside, rip over her back. The pressure of the air changed to the side and she ducked, rolled, lashed out with her feet. It was a difficult move and it brought down the girl, but it didnít stop the fight.
O-ren had been scrambling, pushing herself. Forgetting about the slashes and the raw skin that now covered her in lieu of clothing. And the girl had been still calm, still unmarked but for a slight sliver of red down one arm. She had darted in and out, lightly stroking more cuts over O-ren. It had not been fast, it had not been clean, and somehow it had been besting her. Shattering her concentration, her skills, her thinking, and leaving nothing but anger.
When the girl went down, sword clattering away, O-ren made sure she stayed down.
Blood: And even swordless, the girl was like lightning. She twisted from O-renís blows and wrapped around her, weight hard on joints and teeth sinking into O-renís neck. O-ren spoke, then. She hadnít before but now the frustration and the rage were too much, and once her tongue had cut loose it had to curse and scream and cry and moan. It lashed out as the girl did with her mouth and hands, hitting wound after wound so the pain cascaded high in O-ren, so high that she cracked and she hit back not thinking, not planning, and then some of her blows hit home. But they were so tangled now with her anger and her words that she couldnít make sense of herself. The girl had won anyway.
Lust: Mouth licking the blood from mouth. O-ren pressed her fingers up the girlís leg, felt the hard muscle push back, and clawed at the girlís robes to get more. To feel more, to dig in her nails and return the bite mangling her lip, shoulder. She found nothing to impede her and her fingers slid into hot clenching warmth.
The girlís breath caught. Not a sound, but an absence of one. Still, it was a small step in O-renís favor.
But soon it was overwhelmed by small palms stroking her body, small lips nursing her nipples. Every time the girlís nails caught on O-renís cuts, sliced over her bruises, she corkscrewed her fingers and she felt the quiver from the girlís thighs to her breasts, small and round and rubbing against O-renís. Swallowed it with spit and blood so it etched her insides with fire.
Cold pressing her thighs. She and the girl were up on their knees and wrapping around each other, her fingers wringing the last shakes of a silent, silent climax from the girl and her knees sliding apart because there were a sword between her legs. There hadnít been one since Matsumoto and that was only for the sake of O-renís parents. She started to close her knees and then her arm was twisted up behind her and she was chipping her teeth on the concrete, not because it burned and widened and forced but because she liked it. Pressed back against the hilt, felt the slight ribbing of its grip rasping her insides, and she did not notice how the roof rubbed raw her nipples because she wanted more of this.
Scar: O-ren leaves a cut too deep to heal unmarked on the girlís hip. She made it with her thumbnail out of pure rage, and now she licks at it. Between her legs is a spreading ache, and in its wake, she can already feel the cool returning even stronger. Another flaw has been discovered and cut away.
The girl scrawls a name on O-renís back, using the little blood that has not yet dried and crusted over. Itíll wash away soon enough, but its impress writes itself into O-renís bones. Memory of a flaw that she couldnít find herself, but had to see in someone elseís eyes.
Tokyo: Go-Goís mad stare is devoid of thinking. It is only a pale imitation, but by now O-ren is old enough to know the value of imitations. Sometimes they may be more suitable to a certain setting than the original.
One day, Go-Go asks what O-ren sometimes traces teasingly on her back. O-ren slaps her, and Go-Go never asks again.
O-ren says little now. Someday she hopes to say nothing at all.