A story fragment

Honestly I expect everyone reading this to fall into at least one of the following three categories:

1. People who won't get the underlying reference, because it's from before their time.
2. People who won't recognize the surface context, because it's from after their time.
3. Me.

---

You wince awake. The sun on the horizon is directly in your eyes, turning the visible sliver of sky an appalling flavor of orange. You try to move your lips, but nothing comes out at first.

You turn your head to one side, and almost throw up in the process. Poison, you think somewhat deliriously. Probably just intended to incapacitate, or else you'd already be dead. The tear in your side might be lethal yet, though.

You stare at the river beneath you for a moment, its waters just disturbed enough by the boat's passage that you can't make out any reflections. The boat's railing wobbles slightly, but unpleasantly, under your shoulder.

Ripe mikan hang from the orderly rows of trees on the bank beyond. You recognize the orchards, or think you do — if you're right, you're already back across the border and well inside. You must be; otherwise it'd be a death sentence to be lying about in the open like this. How long were you out?

You take a few deeper breaths, trying to steady your mind as you consider your own physical state. It can't have been too long; your wound hasn't healed significantly. It's been bandaged tightly, but blood has leaked through. You're also bruised roughly everywhere.

"Hey," she says, quietly. "Are you awake?"

You catch yourself wondering for a moment, but bite back your first response. Hiwa probably wouldn't appreciate a dissertation on Zhuang Zi or illusion techniques and, frankly, you've no ability to give one.

"... I think," you eventually force out. It feels like there's someone sitting on your chest — someone with a predilection for cake and an aversion to exercise.

You turn back, and the glutton in question gains about twenty kin as you meet her eyes. They're not the eyes you knew.

"... where's Akira?" you hear yourself asking. Demanding. Accusing.

She doesn't flinch. You wouldn't have expected her to, golden child of her family that she is... but there are tears. There have been tears, you realize; and as she closes her eyes for a moment before replying, her face is briefly familiar again.

"It was him or you," she says softly.

Suddenly you can't meet those eyes anymore. She turns away, mercifully hiding them, leaving you staring at the stylized white-and-red fan on the back of her happi.

There are probably words to be said, but neither of you can find them.