Miyajima


He rose out of the shadows, unseen by even the members of his unit. As he was trained to do.

Hayashi Yadayu Masataka was the name he selected on his twelfth birthday. It was the name of the fourteenth headmaster in the art of Eishin-Ryu Iaido, a man who he respected deeply, and more importantly a man whose name had not been taken by any other in his unit.

The Corporation Without Names trained Hayashi to kill and to do nothing more or less. He could kill in less than a second, returning to his original posture with calm complacency. As a victim of his attack you would not know you were going to die until you saw your own blood spray from your neck. You would neither see nor hear him, before or after. The ancient arts he practiced with Katana and Wakizashi were supplemented by his skill with firearms and explosives. Even the sharpest sword could not vanquish a building nor remove a plane from the skies; the necessity for modern forms became apparent on many missions.

Hayashi approached the man and dispelled a wave of frustration. He had been trained to kill and trained to control his emotions. His orders to simply capture the man were crucial. His frustration was embarrassing. Above all that, the man heard him! It was unthinkable! He spun around and faced Hayashi, drawing a gun. Hayashi fell to the ground, injecting the man in the leg, succeeding in his mission.

Four more from his unit materialized from the surrounding bushes and carried the body away.

. . .

The man stirred. Hayashi’s gaze did not falter.

“Do not attempt escape. You are bound very well.” Hayashi was trained in English, but not effectively; his line of work did not often entail talking.

“With what organization are you associated?” The man spoke precise Japanese.

“Do you have a name?”

“No.”

“Nor does my organization.”

The man fell back into unconsciousness.


SMR 99.11.17