Resolution I



      Saitou Hajime propped his feet up on the Western desk and leaned back into 
      his chair. Languidly reaching into his side pocket, he pulled out a silver 
      case and opened it carefully. Seeing the long elegant sticks lined up 
      neatly in the case, he smiled in idle contentment. There was nothing in 
      the world that brought him the kind of satisfaction that cigarettes did. 
      Not when he solved a difficult case or when he triumphed in battle. Not 
      even when he made love to a woman. Always after such events, a cigarette 
      must be lit to accentuate the pleasure.
      With gloved-covered fingers long and slender like the cigarettes he so 
      treasured, he picked out a stick and placed it between thin lips. Reaching 
      into his pocket once more, he felt for his matches. The cigarette was lit, 
      and he took a long drag, taking in the intense smell of smoke and burning 
      tobacco. He exhaled with a rough sigh of pleasure.
      The good thing about cigarettes was, they were excellent company. In 
      Asahikawa, the center of Hokkaido, he was to spend his days until the 
      troublesome matter of gun smuggling was resolved. The details of the case 
      were not quite clear, he only knew for now that the local Yakuza were 
      bringing those detestable Western inventions into Japan via Hokkaido on a 
      large scale. 
      The most cowardly of weapons was the gun, for it did not take much skill 
      to fire a shot and kill a man instantly. The katana however, was a weapon 
      of style and courage. If there was ever a good way to die, it would be 
      death by a skillfully wielded katana. Yet times had changed, and it seemed 
      that even the Japanese were yielding to the cheap manner of the gun. In 
      the new era, such things made him feel his age. His katana remained by his 
      side still, always a faithful and deadly companion. While his unyielding 
      loyalty to the old style won him respect, it also provoked talk of being 
      mired in the past.
      A sliver of ash fell from the tip of its precariously long stem onto his 
      clean shirt. He flicked it off distractedly. There was plenty of time to 
      think in his isolation. In the godforsaken place that was the Daisetsuzan 
      region, he kept vigil in his little hut. It was a small but sturdy 
      structure near the base of the mountains, isolated enough that his 
      presence remained neglected, yet near enough to the town so that his men 
      could bring reports to him.
      The men under him were young and foolish, eager to please but rather 
      inefficient in investigation work. Before long, he would have to conduct 
      his own inquiries, if he wanted to leave Hokkaido and return to his wife. 
      The trouble with rising too high in rank was that he was given plenty of 
      cushy administration work to do, but little action to partake in. While he 
      enjoyed barking orders at his flustered young officers, Saitou was always 
      a man of action first and foremost. At least his cigarettes never failed 
      him.
      Loud knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts. He frowned slightly. 
      It was one of those inexplicable moments in life. Here he was, thinking of 
      foolish men and right then one of those men decided to turn up. Nobody 
      else visited him, for nobody else knew of his whereabouts. Surely the fool 
      need not knock so vigorously. There was no reason why he would not be 
      inside.
      With a grunt of disgust, he took his legs off the desk in one swift motion 
      and strode toward the door, opening it roughly.
      "What?"
      The sight of the strange man who stood outside the door was utterly 
      surprising. The cigarette hung limply by his lips as his mouth went agape, 
      but only for the most fleeting of instances. A slow curl of his lips into 
      a cunning smile quickly replaced his previously undignified manner. He 
      raised an eyebrow.
      "Ahou."