A Rivalry Spun

Katsuko carried the parasol on her shoulder like she was pretending to ignore an alligator along its shaft. Would the local Japanese think the umbrella strange, out of place, pretentious? She kept her eyes trained on the grass growing through cracks in the pavement, hoping no one would notice her American walk or speak to her and hear her English.

There was a world just upward of her view full of bright, neat buildings, of a sky traversed​ by hornets just setting out from a long winter of hibernation. It was warm and wet and smelled of the previous night's rain. She would have enjoyed letting all that impress itself on a clear mind.

But Wild Thing had crushed her sternum with a wild bare-foot leap, had pressed her into the mat and held her there, growling, spittle flying, spattering on her ear. Running down her neck. And all the refinement and clear thinking in the world had not given Katsuko an out.

And ever since then, clear thinking was less and less something Kat was good at.

So here she was, outside this dojo that wasn't her own, seeking for the first time since she'd come to Japan a master of the art who was better than her. Someone who could teach her.

(Someone who could make her safe from people like Wild Thing)

Inside the dojo, a girl in a kimono practiced moves familiar to Katsuko. Through the glass, she was silent, but Kat could imagine the sound of her flesh slicing the air. She could hear the petite fighter's shouts at each strike and feel the complex but utterly regimented way she coordinated her no doubt sinewy muscle.

This dojo had produced at least one competent pupil. The assurance and its familiarity gave Katsuko breath as she stepped through the front door and made her way, shuffling, to meet this young woman.

She bowed.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I hope I am not interrupting you, but I am a student, and I am looking for the master of this dojo. Is he in-house?"

Master?

The notion was so unexpected that it pulled Katsuko's legs from under her. And then, before she had time to think, the insult--do I have experience? She laughed once, hard. "I've probably been practicing for longer than you've been alive!"

But then she caught herself. She could hear the insecurity dripping from her own words as she heard them, and the girl's stolid expression made her blush. She bowed.

"Though, I suppose they say that Musashi Miyamoto himself felled the greatest sword masters in Japan while he was but a sapling."

The birds outside chirped and twittered in the silence that followed.

"...You mentioned a challenge. But we should know each other better, first. At the very least, let me share my name?"

It was, perhaps, unsurprising that this child would have less-than-polished manners at her age, and anyway, Katsuko had erred as badly in terms of rudeness. She did not dwell on it. Instead, she explained who she was--Himura Katsuko, of the Himura family--and where she was from--America. She talked of karate and judo, of honor and craft, and briefly of her husband, who had come with her to Japan.

"Now I'm here to honor my tradition...and your tradition...our tradition in the AFW. If, by challenging you, I can train myself to be less a fool in that ring, then surely I will. Someday."

Though on that day, as for all her serious fights, she would not be the Katsuko now on display. Then, she would be wearing her mask.

Katsuko's smile wore very thin as Ken explained her history. From the AFW, eh?

"I suppose the AFW is quite a program in this city," she remarked. "Every dojo in town, no doubt, will have some affiliation. It will make finding neutral friends difficult."

A hundred dojos across one urban sprawl--filled with blonde girls in leotards, practicing "high flying" moves from the top ropes!

In a way, it would be nice to be one of Kena's girls in training, standing in a line and practicing form over and over again, safe and gentle. And traditional. Yet she would also be her young self, foreign to Tokyo and the ever-present smell of exhaust and seabreeze and incense--poised to discover it all again.

After Ken finished speaking, Kat assumed a box stance, right foot foward, weight on the left foot, low center of gravity, hands in ward-off. Just like a student would.

Alright. She would spar.

"Teach me, Arisato-sensei."

So Katsuko removed her shoes and put them neatly by the door. Then it was back to her stance.

...But she still missed her attire. She missed the way her breath caught in the mask, the way her robes hung loose on her shoulders. In her skirt and day-shirt, she felt. Well, silly. Like a weaboo imitating an anime character's fake stance.

Oh well. The mat was familiar and soft to her feet. In a moment, this master would try to tie Katsuko up with her own ligaments, and Katsuko would have a submission or two to put on exhibition herself. And no one who can break bones feels that silly.

"Shall I 'come at you' now, then?" she said with a smile.

...It's possible Katsuko came on too hard.

Kena wanted to fight. Katsuko could read it in her face--which doesn't involve nearly the subtlety you would think. Kena beamed like a kid on Christmas morning who wakes up to find, surprise! Dad dressed up like santa.

Katsuko...Well. She had different feelings, most of which revolved around a certain rabid blonde girl who had ripped her a new one on stage recently. Did she want to redeem her worth by beating up a kid (who also happened to be the master at a local dojo)? Not in so many words, but...

But she did attack Kena with a ridge-hand strike, which was also a feint. She looked as though she was going to chop Kena's neck with the inside of her flat hand...but in fact she aimed to strike farther back than that. Kat wanted to wrap her arm around Kena's head and drive that head into her knee.

If she succeeded, it would be an unhappy, bloody nose sort of scene...