Japan was much the way Michael Stone remembered it. He had spent a great part of his youth here. He looked at the buildings as the taxi he was in drove through the streets of Tokyo. Not much had changed. The neon signs still glared above, while the streets and sidewalks were covered in people of all races. That would make hunting here harder, he knew.
The taxi wound its way up the roads from the city. It drove into the mountains near the city. It followed a road until it entered a small village. The village had changed little since Stone had been there. He thought back. He was twelve years old when he came here for the first time.
The small taxi car stopped in front of a well-landscaped lawn that sat beside the narrow street. Harper got out, paid the driver, and retrieved his luggage from the car's roof. He then walked up the stone steps to the doors of a large building. He sat his luggage down, and pressed the buzzer on the wall beside the double doors.
He was twelve years old when he first came here. A man, his class teacher, dropped him off here. He told Michael that he would return every other day to conduct his schooling. He had told Michael that he would learn his biology, science, history, and math here at this new school. He had turned around and left the boy standing before the doors, holding a suitcase, not unlike the way Stone stood now.
A man dressed in the black hakama pleated pants-skirt of the samurai warriors had opened the double doors for the boy. He had bade Michael entrance. The boy had went inside, and for the next eight years, he had never left.
This night, however, no one opened the door for him. It was unlike Osato-sensei to not answer the door. Stone placed a cautious hand upon the door and pushed. It was unlocked, and it opened under his palm. Stone stepped inside.
The entrance foyer contained a small fountain, its water cascading noisily over three tiers. There were bonzai trees spaced about the small room, as well as arrangements of ikebana flowers. Stone removed his leather shoes and set them on the rack against one wall. He noticed no others there.
Stone moved quietly through an archway into the main room, the dojo. There were lighted candles along the walls that cast shadows upon the large, canvas tatami mat in the center of the room. Stone saw one of the shadows at the far end of the mat move.
The shadow, which Stone now saw was a person, somersaulted in the air and began to cartwheel towards him. When the shadow neared, it leaped into a sidekick aimed at his head. Stone crouched and spun as the shadow flew above him. The shadow landed with a soft step on its feet near the edge of the tatami. Stone looked at the figure clothed in a black, wrapped hood, a black gi, its arms and legs tied at the ends. A ninja.
The ninja unsheathed a short sword from it's belt. A wakizashi, Stone noticed, the short sword carried by the samurai. The ninja attacked with a sweeping cut aimed for Michael's head. Stone dropped again, catching himself on his right hand and kicking out with his left leg. He felt his foot push against the attacker's chest. The ninja stumbled backwards, then dropped under the force of the kick. The black-garbed attacker then rolled backwards to its feet.
Stone stood relaxed in an aiki-jujutsu receiving posture. He had no idea who this ninja was. Or, why the warrior would attack him. It didn't matter, though. If the ninja was fighting with mushi-no-in, the mind of no mind, then he was prepared to die. And that was fine by Michael Stone.
The ninja attacked again, a cut that came from overhead. Stone sidestepped the strike, and moved into a shaolin snake posture. He struck at the ninja's head with the back of his hand in a kokku strike. The ninja fell backwards, stumbled, then regained his balance. The attacker swung with the sword again, an arcing cut that should have cut Stone into.
Michael stepped into the cut, taking the attacker's wrists into his hands. He turned his body with the cut, rolling the ninja's hands in his own. The shadow warrior was thrown to the mat. The sword came away into Michael's hands.
Stone prepared a cut to the ninja's head. Then, the overhead lights in the dojo came on. Michael stopped the razor sharp blade just inches before the downed ninja's neck. Michael turned to see Osato-sensei standing at the end of the rectangular room.
"Please don't, Michael-san," Osato said to him. "It would be a great waste of resources." The old man was smiling. Stone removed the sword from where he had stopped the cut. He stepped back a few paces, then faced his master, and bowed. Osato returned the bow.
Toshiro Osato was almost eighty now. His white hair, sparse and thin, was no longer held in a topknot. He gestured to the black-clad figure on the floor. "To your feet, Mariko-san," he said.
Stone watched as the ninja stood. The black head wrap came off, and a beautiful young Japanese woman shook her long, shiny black hair free from it. She looked at Stone, although she never met his eyes with hers. She bowed reverently.
"Stone-sensei," she said. "It is an honor. I am Mariko Norimura."
