A/n : Shout outs to Almyra for her excellent Star Wars knowledge – check out her story which is referenced in this chapter (I'll let you find out which one!) Additionally, shout out to Tierney Beckett and her great story "Storm Clouds May Gather" which really gave me some insight into Obi-Wan & romance. Check out those stories! (available on this website)

Part V : Endgame

Anakin felt his 'saber arcing its way towards him through the Force. He jerked his hand off the railing and reached below the level of the gantry, hauling on the speeding weapon with his formidable Force powers, accelerating its already headlong rush towards him.

As his lightsaber screamed towards him with the desperate urgency of Padme, Usaki angled her own weapon and made to lunge into his heart. "I guess this is where you lose the game, little Skywalker," she snarled. He could sense the sensual tightening of her muscles sequentially as she primed her perfect body for the blow, an exquisite Shiak in the making.

With an ugly and barely-muffled clang as durasteel hilt met armored glove, Anakin's blade smacked into his artificial hand with enough force to break the leather. "No," he said quietly, cold rage building in the center of his being as he looked at this Dark Side disease. "This is where the rules change."

His blade swept through the air, deflecting her lunge past his shoulder even as he sliced through the railing with an explosion of molten durasteel. He had hoped she would be thrown off-balance by her thrust, but she was too experienced a warrior for that. She made to whip her weapon back, getting a good, solid two-handed grip on the hilt and making to whirl the blade into his neck.

With a bellow of the Force and a flex of his powerful muscles, Anakin leapt into the air, pivoting on his left hand, throwing his body clean off the latticework metal of the gantry, lashing out with a blow from his right leg, as sudden and devastating as a hydraulic piston. His boot crashed into her throat, something in there yielding under the force of the blow. As she staggered back, a terrible paroxysm of coughing starting in her impressive chest, Anakin called on the Force again to sweep him still higher into the air, spinning around and lashing out with a left-footed kick. It hit her at the point of her chin, her head snapping backwards and rolling to the side, her shoulders following it and the rest of her trailing in an undignified chain.

She stumbled backwards, her green eyes glazing, blood bubbling at the corners of her mouth and trickling from her nostrils. Anakin landed sure-footed on the gantry, glanced at the blade in his fist and almost seemed to shrug. And then, with a awful, casual indifference as cold as a Hoth icestorm, he slid his finger off the activation stud and the blade shrank away.

And then he reversed his grip on the 'saber and pommel-whipped her across the temple, driving her to her knees. He swept the blunt instrument back upwards with the full strength of his mechanical arm behind it, knocking her back to her feet and sending her staggering against the railing, her beautiful face mottled with bruises, blood gushing from a serious compression scalp-wound on her forehead, her lip split and eyes dull and soulless. Her 'saber fell from nerveless fingers and – its blade shrinking away - clattered on the latticed deckplates.

A crystallizing coldness took Anakin's heart – a freezing anger that numbed any sense of decency or honor or adherence to any code. This woman had threatened Padme, had taunted Obi-Wan, had probably killed hundreds of innocents. And she had humiliated him and made him feel like nothing more than a posturing youngling.

There wasn't any justice to be had for that in bringing her in – it was time to take her down.

He drew back his arm and struck her again, and again, and again. He stuck with a calculating precision better suited to a droid than a man, carefully ensuring he didn't knock her unconscious or kill her, always timing his blows perfectly so she remained slumped against the railings like a puppet with its strings cut, held there by the force of his assault and the weight of his icy rage. He only stopped when the weapon began to slip in his hand as her blood lubricated it.

And then he lashed out with a left handed punch that could have come from a Gamorean, striking the swaying woman directly on the chin with a hideous crunch. It tipped her over the railing, sending her tumbling down the cooling sink.

Anakin took a single step towards the edge of the gantry, wanting to watch her fall. He was entirely unprepared for the swelling surge of dark energy which seemed to draw power from every corner of the universe, including from inside his own black desires, that flipped Usaki in the air, latching her fingers into the holes of the decking beneath his feet. And then she was swinging under the gantry like a Haruun Kal marmoset, flipping over the railing on the other side in a flicker of impossibly shapely limbs. She landed behind him, swaying and stumbling into his back, her breath hot on his neck and a crimson smear of blood and lipstick kissing against his ear.

"You liked that, didn't you?" she croaked phlegmatically in what would have been a sensual purr had it not been for the damage his blows had inflicted on her throat. Her trembling right hand crawled like a Shebian ecstasy pspyder on his shoulder. "You didn't want to kill me, you didn't want to capture me, you just wanted to see a woman bleed." He span around, desperately knocking her off him, slamming her in the stomach with his elbow. But she was already leaping backwards, gesturing at her lightsaber which flew into her hand. "Think on that, Hero With No Fear," she snarled scornfully from amid the bruised travesty that was her battered and beautiful face. She blew him a kiss that he swore he could feel between his thighs and his ears and then vanished into the steam in a burst of Ataru.

o

o

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.

You are standing on the very edge of a precipice, your hands gripping onto the one thing that you think can stop you from falling. The 'saber-chopped durasteel is rattling in your hands, gamma-welds coming loose as the terrified trembling that you absolutely, positively cannot stop pinwheels out from your heart and across your shoulders and down your biceps even into your mechanical hand.

You have come so close that you can feel the furnace heat on your hands and face. You very nearly completely lost control.

You cling to the railing as a physical representation of the things that hold you in place, seeing them as docking clamps holding you tightly in the transport cradle. And you rebel against even that, wanting to be flying free and clear in open space with no flight plan and no restrictions – not realizing that what holds you in place are not docking clamps but maneuvering thrusters. Your orbit is decaying, being pushed out into the cold darkness of interstellar space or pulled into the crushing gravity well of a dead star.

You don't realize the real danger you faced was not that you nearly killed her, but that you didn't think that was enough. You look at what you have done and you thank the Force she escaped, because you think nearly only counts with proton grenades.

The trembling in your hands is stopping as soothing rationalizations flow into your wounded heart – she is a Dark Jedi, she is a wellspring of dark emotion. She wanted you to do that. She forced you to do that. She made you hit her like that.

You can sense the beacon of coruscating light that is your Master approaching, an event-horizon of calm, soothing warmth that flows from some place you cannot name; from the Temple, from the Force, from his own incomparable heart. And you know that to throw yourself into that light will cure you and will wash away all these rationalizations, and denials, and desperate justifications.

But you also know it will set you back, that you will have to admit he is still your Master. And you cannot bring yourself to do that. You cannot bring yourself to open up and let the healing happen. Because it will cost you, because that will mean you have to admit the Hero With No Fear fears himself.

Not for the first time, but perhaps for the last, you turn your back on the light your Master offers.

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker right now.

o

o

Obi-Wan Kenobi vaulted over the railing a few meters behind Anakin, his 'saber lit and flaring in the stream-wash of the cooling sink. He landed on the gantry, taking in the tactical situation in a single sweep of his gaze that took an instant or less. His blade shrank away as he stepped towards Anakin.

The younger man gave him his back, so motionless he seemed to be shivering. Seen with the eyes of the Force, Anakin was a roiling column of cloud, feeding on internal energies, beginning the dangerous rotation that heralds a thunderstorm. Obi-Wan walked cautiously up behind him, grimly fascinated by the steady drip of blood from the hilt of the younger Jedi's blade.

"Anakin," said Obi-Wan. It sounded less like a question than a simple statement of being; you are Anakin. Slowly, as if he glided on an invisible repulsor plate, Anakin turned to face Obi-Wan. The younger man's eyes were shuttered torpedo tubes, seen from inside the armory. Obi-Wan was almost afraid to speak, as if words would be warheads launched into the interstellar emptiness of Anakin's soul, shattering his world forever. And so he simply stood silent as Anakin shook the blood from the hilt of his blade as if shaking himself awake and blinked once or twice.

"Usaki," he began. "She has escaped." It was not quite a lie. And then he looked directly at Obi-Wan. "Padme," he said urgently. "Where is she?"

"A statement I should be making if either of us has to," said Obi-Wan icily, "and a question I should be asking you." Anakin glared at Obi-Wan, infuriated at another lecture, but Obi-Wan did not give him chance to say a word. "The orders of the Council are not merely guidelines, Anakin!" he said in his clipped, precise Coruscanti accent. "Nor are mine."

Anakin's lips twisted sourly and he said, "I'm not your Padawan anymore." There was a surly tone to his voice, overlaying the almost imperceptible strata of regret and longing for what might have been a simpler time. If he were a Padawan, he could be rebuked simply and directly by his Master. Now that he was a Knight the interaction was far more complex – he was expected to discipline himself long before anyone else tried.

Obi-Wan's blue eyes narrowed very slightly, but that was the extent of his emotional reaction. "No," he said. His words were soft but primitively decisive. "You are not – you are something far more beholden to obedience. You are a Jedi Knight, Anakin! If you do not obey orders, what are you?"

It was painfully clear to Anakin's ego – as bruised as Usaki's face – that Obi-Wan had not said cannot. The charge of willful disobedience was not much short of a slap in the face, and his words came like blaster bolts in a clipped, coiled, cold and oiled voice. "I am a Jedi who does what he thinks is right," he snarled.

"Jedi do not disobey the orders of the Council, Anakin." Obi-Wan's voice was measured and calm, as if Anakin were still a nine-year old boy being lectured in the very basics of using the Force. As if reading his former Padawan's mind, Obi-Wan emphasized a key difference. "A Force-user who does not obey the Council is simply that – a Force-user. A Jedi does not do what he thinks is right, he does what he knows is right. And what he knows is that the Council is right – without that knowledge he should no longer be a Jedi."

Anakin hung his head, ashamed by Obi-Wan's rebuke. He did not notice the hatch that Obi-Wan was holding open for him – quite unconsciously, perhaps. The Jedi that was Obi-Wan Kenobi did not intend and could not have imagined he was suggesting the Lost Twenty might become the Lost Twenty-One. All Anakin heard was the man who had loved and trained and protected and nurtured him for thirteen years; he heard his voice and in that voice he heard disappointment.

It was a disappointment with himself, but Anakin did not hear that.

And so Anakin did not raise his voice or his ire – he breathed deeply and remembered the first lessons Obi-Wan had taught him. The cha'a'un – the breath of patience. The kata of contemplation, of awareness, of discipline. Of connection to the Living Force. He sighed and lowered his head in the respectful bow of the student before the Master.

"I apologize, Master," he said contritely. He looked down at his boots and back on the events of the past few hours. "I have not been a credit to your training today, and for that I am sorry. I am very grateful for all you have done for me." Obi-Wan smiled and put a calloused hand on Anakin's broad shoulder. He squeezed the muscles bunched as hard as wroshyr wood, attempting to massage out some of the tensions.

"Anakin," he said gently – and then paused. There was so much to say, and yet no foundation for him to say it on. He hung his own head – he had failed Qui-Gon, failed his own Master's dying wish to train the boy. He had not made Anakin into the Jedi he deserved to be.

It was a measure of Obi-Wan's own weaknesses that he saw the fact Anakin was not a model Jedi as a personal failure. He swallowed heavily. "Anakin," he began again, "I am never disappointed in you – only in myself. You have surpassed my feeble attempts at instruction – any failures in you are my own." He paused, taking the hand off the young man's shoulder as he lifted his head and rubbing his beard. "Anakin," he said carefully, as lightly as he could, "you are close to Senator Amidala." The young man's eyes flashed worried fire. "Friends, I mean – of course," he added swiftly.

And it was not a lie; Obi-Wan did think she and Anakin were friends – even though he knew Anakin might have wanted it to be more, at least subconsciously. Again, he blamed himself for not beginning Anakin's training before they had met, when it would have been early enough. "I care for her a great deal," replied Anakin, "and I would never let anything happen to her. I have been assigned as her yojimbo, and I realize I have neglected that duty, but . . ." Obi-Wan cut him off.

"That is not what I mean, Anakin," he said. He gave a little half-grin. "I've moved beyond chiding you for your mistakes, Padawan," he smirked. His face became serious again. "I mean that you care for her, and that such care may be . . . dangerous." Anakin's brow furrowed. "It is an attachment, and attachments are dangerous for Jedi. They are, as all things are, transitory." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "There may be a time when you cannot feel what you feel for her now, when such feelings will be dangerous – and perhaps even a path to the Dark Side."

Anakin looked at his former Master with outward calm – nothing more than a polite, puzzled curiosity – but inside he was churning like a hunting Vaapad. How much does he know? How much does he guess? "Master," he said with lips that were suddenly as dry as the sands of his home planet, "how can compassion be my undoing?" As soon as he said it, he regretted it – he had been so focused on his own concerns he had forgotten to even pretend to think like a Jedi.

"Compassion is one of the easiest ways that a Jedi can be undone, Anakin," smiled Obi-Wan, incredulity washing over his well-manicured face. "It is perhaps the most seductive path to the Dark Side – because love seems to be such a high goal." He shook his head, dismissing the young man's error. "Senator Amidala is a young woman," he began, his eyes cast down, his voice uncertain. "A . . . beautiful young woman, who has . . . many friends outside of your circle. There may come a time when it may be . . . advantageous for her to . . . marry."

Anakin could almost not believe his ears – his Master was speaking of such things, which itself was first-beam Holonet news, but he also sounded embarrassed to be talking about it; which was – of course – impossible. And it was only the ludicrous irony of him suggesting she might get married to someone else that stopped Anakin from boiling over into rage. "Padme would never marry merely for political gain, Master – and it is unworthy of you to even suggest it!" he snapped. Obi-Wan shook his head, and then bowed it contritely.

"I did not mean to imply that, I apologize. But, the point remains . . ." He looked at his friend, passing his hand over his brow. There was so much he needed to say – starting with the fact Padme was pregnant – but could not, simply because it would be a breach of whatever trust could possibly exist when even she didn't know yet. "Anakin, there will come a time when she loves someone else." He finally managed to stare Anakin straight in the face. "I want you to be aware of that, and ready to let that attachment pass out of your life when the time comes. Do you understand me?"

o

o

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.

You stand facing your former Master, and a difficulty you never envisaged having to face. You expected and planed to hide your marriage and your love, but never to explain why you did not fear losing that love.

And in the whirl of that confusion and difficulty, you utter a simple lie. A lie you think is safe because you think you will never have to live up to it. And you follow that lie with words which are true, but which are still deceptive.

You tell Obi-Wan Kenobi – and yourself – that you are more than ready to let that attachment pass from your life. That there was a time when you feared losing her, but that time is past.

You don't know if Obi-Wan believes you – but you begin to believe yourself.

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker right now.

o

o

Padme did not simply stand around on the rusted island of wreckage, clinging to the oxidized ferrous garbage in a stagnant lake. She saw no reason to do so – the Jedi Council answered to the Senate, not the other way around. Of course, that did not mean individual Jedi answered to individual Senators – although she might have liked to have thought it did. She unclipped the ascension gun from her belt and pointed it upwards, aiming it at the lowest of the gantries that cut across the great cooling sink. It was blurred, fuzzed in her vision by shifting steam. With a pulse of electromagnetic energy, the barbed dart shot upwards, durasteel cable spooling off with a howl, and vanished into the cloudbank. Abruptly, the cable stopped paying out – the sensors mounted in the gun must have detected that the dart had embedded in the gantry. Padme tugged firmly on the gun and – when the cable did not move – she hit the activation plate and retracted the cable, pulling herself smoothly upwards through the clouds.

The steam condensed on her as she rose, soaking her hair and already damp clothes. She coughed and spat as water trickled into her mouth, blinking her eyes. When she opened them, she found that she was at the level of the gantry.

And then she realized that the dart had not embedded in the gantry at all.

She had missed – or perhaps a subtle use of the Force had made it miss – by about half a meter. The dart had screamed past the gantry, rising about three meters before it had been stopped. But it had not been stopped by hitting something – it had been stopped because the durasteel cable had been caught about three meters below the speeding dart. Caught by a rancor-leather gloved hand that gripped as tightly as a docking claw.

And now Padme Amidala was hanging like a vermiform Talosian on a creen line, her hands clinging to the hilt of a grapnel gun which hung half a meter below the clenched fist of Usaki Ketsubo Daikatana – a fist that was held at the full stretch of her long arm. Three meters of cable dangled loosely down, tangling once or twice around her arm, from the other side of her fist.

Padme drifted her gaze up the taut cable, along the well-muscled arm glistening in its embrace of hot, wet leather, and looked at Usaki's face. She gasped in horror – when she had last seen Usaki, she had been perfect and beautiful, as flawless as the Sorceress of the Desert in the Mon Calamari opera. Now, her face was mottled and corrupted with bruises and blood, her skin battered and split, green eyes bloodshot with shattered capillaries.

"Your protector did this to me," she snarled though split lips, "the Hero With No Fear. I was defenseless and defeated, I wasn't a threat." Padme frantically swung her legs, reaching for the edge of the gantry with her feet. Usaki shook her head indulgently and activated her 'saber with her free hand, cutting a wide semi-circle out of the latticework of the deckplates. The half-moon, its edges still glowing white-hot, fell lazily and hissing through the steam. "I hope you appreciate the fact I took the trouble to cut off your foothold," she purred. "It would have been much easier to simply cut off your feet." Padme tried for a few more seconds to reach the gantry, and then – when she realized it was impossible – stopped and simply hung in place. "Your brave Jedi did this to me, the one who loves you. See what he does to women whom he doesn't agree with, who don't give him just what he wants."

Padme shook her head. "He's not like that, he wouldn't . . ." Usaki looked down at her with disbelieving pity. "You must have made him . . ." she said desperately.

"And I'm sure he says the same when he hurts you," she laughed in an insinuating purr. She deactivated her 'saber and clipped it to the inside of her skirt, pressing her left hand to her chest in a horrible pantomime. "'Oh Padme!'" she gasped melodramatically, "'why do you have to make me hurt you? I only hurt you because I love you!'" She snarled and glared at Padme. "They're all the same – and he's no better than me." Hanging from the cable, her arms beginning to tire, Padme frantically shook her head, the motion making her spin back and forth.

"No, no," she gabbled, "he's better than you. You're a monster, you're a Dark Jedi, you're a murderer . . ."

"And what is he?" she asked in a low purr, pulling her face close to hers, so close that Padme could smell her exotic perfume and alluring sweat and the copper taste of her spilled blood. "Are you so sure he's none of those things? Look what he did to a defenseless woman – can you really say that he's never done anything like this before?"

o

o

This is Padme Amidala.

She hangs by a thread, quite literally, over a yawning chasm she has fallen down once today, guided and supported in her tumble by the man she trusts, away from the man she loves. And she has climbed again, seeking to rise to him and finding instead this monster – what she wants to call a dark reflection of him, a warning, an example of everything he could become if he falls.

And now she stares into those venom-green eyes and sees dreadful knowledge and understanding. She sees this monster is not really a reflection of her husband, but is perhaps his future. She sees the marks of his handiwork on her face and she cannot bring herself to deny it. Because she asks her to deny he has ever done anything like this before – and she cannot say that.

They were animals, he said. They killed his mother, he said. He slaughtered them in revenge.

He has done this before, he has done this now and who is to say he won't do so again?

But this is Padme Amidala, and he is the man she loves.

o

o

Padme jerked on the cable, her shoulders screaming at her as Usaki swung her arm back out to full stretch. She bit her lip and gripped the hilt of the gun tighter with trembling hands, glancing at the dark clad figure which had just dropped out of the steam to land on the gantry with a ringing note like a plucked Twi'lek lute. The figure drew itself to its impressive height, a strong arm and a bar of azure flame extending from it. "Let her go, Usaki," snarled Anakin Skywalker.

Usaki unfolded her fingers just a shade – a meter of cable raced through her fist before she tightened it again, the sharp edges of the durasteel rope wrapped around her arm slicing the brown leather. "Let her go?" she taunted. "An unfortunate choice of words." Anakin cocked his blade at his shoulder in a Shien-ready stance, mirroring her own position, and made to advance. She shook her head. "I wouldn't, little Skywalker – she's getting awfully heavy." Her arm trembled, just enough to make Anakin stop in his tracks. "You'd best tell her to lay off the pyollian cake." Anakin's face darkened with horrible rage.

"You little sleemo," snarled Anakin, "if you hurt her . . ." Another two decimeters of cable slipped though Usaki's fist.

"You're protector isn't too bright, is he?" she smiled at Padme. "I guess boys who hurt women don't need to be clever." She turned to face him. "Every insult is just you jamming another slice of cake down her throat."

Anakin swallowed. "Put her down," he said tightly. "This is between you and me." Usaki laughed, a beautiful, trilling sound that crawled like a Hoth cryopede down his spine.

"Oh, how naive and arrogant you are, little boy," she taunted. "This has nothing to do with you – you're not man enough to even interest me. You're a distraction – and not a very good one at that." She jiggled the cable in her fist, causing Padme to jerk back and forth, her hands sliding on the grip of the gun. "Senator Amidala is going to have a private meeting with Count Dooku – perhaps a friendly chat can help end this senseless war."

Anakin's jaw clenched, muscle rippling there and causing his teeth to creak like starship framing members in a hyperspace-storm. His eyes measured decimeters and angles; he thought he could be on her before she stood a chance of drawing her blade. He could run her though or strike her down in an instant. He could kill her before she knew what had happened – and then he could save Padme, grabbing her with the Force and lifting her up to the gantry before Usaki's beautiful corpse had even begun to tumble.

Couldn't he?

But if he didn't – if he wasn't fast enough, or he didn't even try, instead choosing to attempt to capture or merely injure her – then she would simply hurl Padme down and away, a tumbling doll thrown against the wall with bone-shattering power, accelerated by gravity and the Force.

He could kill her. He should kill her.

He should have killed her when he had the chance – but he had wanted to make her suffer.

He had wanted.

And Obi-Wan wanted her alive. The Council wanted her alive – for questioning. Once again, Obi-Wan and the Council were getting in his way, holding him back. This time, they were risking Padme's life as well, using her for their own purposes.

Impotent rage and anger and hatred and disgust boiled within him, dark like a Coruscanti thunderhead. And Usaki saw it, and tasted it, and smiled. He was so close, teetering on the very edge of the precipice. The fractures in their relationship were as clear as the wounds on her face, distrust and uncertainty hanging heavy in the thick, wet air.

His eyes snapped open. He'd decided to hell with the Council – he was going to kill her.

Or at least try.

She was aware of this before he was, and before he was even in motion she had jumped onto the railing, perched like a bat-hawk, ready to drop into the steam-shrouded depths of the cooling sink with her prisoner.

Anakin realized he'd failed – she was too far away and any blow against her would send her body tumbling off the railing, leaving Padme to fall. He hesitated for a telling moment, not knowing what to do, total defeat whispering at his skin, and the lie he had said before echoing in his mind.

I am more than ready to let that attachment pass from my life, Master.

From out of nowhere, a lightsaber came spinning.

A hurled weapon turned into a whirling disk of light the color of a summer sky. It slashed through Usaki's right arm a centimeter above the last loose coil of cable that was wrapped around it, burning though leather and armorweave and flesh and bone. She howled in rage and agony as her arm was severed just below the elbow, and Anakin howled in grief and despair as she lost her balance and fell from the railing, tumbling into the clouds of the cooling sink.

Padme fell too, the severed forearm – its fist still clamped shut around the cable – dropping down. Anakin reached for her with the Force, but Usaki – with the last remnants of her spiteful strength – was working against him, interfering with his own Force powers.

His wife vanished into the steam clouds, the loose cable trailing behind her, Usaki's amputated limb tangled above her.

And then the cable snapped taut, fastened to the durasteel railing by a sturdy Corellian hitch both Usaki and Anakin had been too-intent on each other to notice the dangling end of the cable tying itself into. Obi-Wan landed on the gantry with an easy flex of his knees, holding out his hand as his 'saber flew back to his belt and clipped itself in place. The cable began to draw itself up, coiling neatly on the gantry as it did so, until Padme could fling one arm around the railing and try to haul herself onto the latticework deckplates.

"Help her, Anakin," Obi-Wan said quietly as the younger man stared with a mixture of awe and shame at the Jedi Master. With a start, Anakin hastened to obey while Obi-Wan stroked his beard with his fingers, supporting the elbow of that arm with his other hand, and shook his head softly.

o

o

This is the Rule of Two.

There are always two – a Master, and an Apprentice. One to embody power, and one to crave it. One to learn, and one to teach. One to desire, and one to be desired.

One to be the action, one to be the result. One to be the subject, one to be the object.

However it is expressed, the Rule of Two is sacrosanct. It is always that way.

And Obi-Wan Kenobi looked down at the two in front of him – one helping the other, one being helped – and felt the two inside her. And he stood alone, and stared into the steamy darkness into which Usaki had vanished.

This is how it feels to be Obi-Wan Kenobi.

For now.

A/n : Thanks for being along for the ride! If you have enjoyed, please review / comment and keep on the look out for more stories featuring Usaki Ketsubo Daikatana.