To Archie

[IamLEAM1983]

You've been to Japan and you've seen Bucky before, well, he was Bucky. What's left of the samurai, now that the kitaiteki's driven by a local?

I'm also curious to know your professional opinion on Three being given a Fae-crafted sword...

[IamLEAM1983]

"Obviously, Shamus is his own man. He never enjoyed Gorobei-san's claim to fame or, indeed, much of the man's observable bloodlust. One might be tempted to answer that your question is blatantly obvious in its answer, but then - certain factors can be considered...

First, there is the idea of Mushin, which translates to no mind. A proper Japanese swordsman ingrains his gestures, his strokes and scything motions, in every fiber of his body. The object of this is not only to obtain perfectly repeatable routines, but also to dispel any need for strategizing while in a fight. Everything must be trusted to the warrior's deepest seat of consciousness, which also requires that he banish any thoughts of self-preservation. A true samurai embraces death, as evidenced by the Hagakure's most striking tenet, to Western eyes. A samurai's duty is found in death.

Conversely, I am a spy by trade. I am to carry secrets from the enemy's fortified location to my colleagues or superiors. Having stood as a member of the United States' secret service, I am sworn to this country's safety and prosperity. Throwing my life away for the sake of seizing a so-called good death would be counterproductive. I've had to banish my own worldly concerns while in a bout, of course - but I would not do my job as well as could be if I did not attempt to prolong my life.

Shamus, as opposed to Gorobei, appears bound to us all by friendship and loyalty. He is unwilling to part with his armature if this should put the rest of us in disfavorable circumstances. Furthermore, his Epicurean nature makes it difficult for him to trust in the Hereafter's promise of rest and repaste. The day's rewards are tangible to him, this making it difficult for him to fight with a still mind. Few vintage Japanese kenjutsu teachers and swordsmiths could understand - but Shamus finds his own impetus in the process of fighting for what he intends to continue enjoying. Sacrificing his life for the sake of glory means nothing to him - regardless of how bushido is deeply inset in those scarred memories of the Nippon warlord which his tamahagame steel frame still contains.

I consider him a noble warrior nonetheless, today far more commendable in his pursuit of honor - in his own lopsided way - than any crazed traditionalist who might stumble upon our shores and attempt to bring old Iwata back to the forefront.

As for the boy's sword, it stands as a chief example of the draconic and Fae influences mortal cultures enjoyed. Some historians now believe that Masamune and Muramasa were Fae of Oriental descent, perhaps linked to the indigenous Ainu tribe that once populated Japan's isles. Lending proof to this would be the sight of a supernaturally light broadsword, forged not in tempered steel, but in martensite alloys reminiscent of Japanese production standards. With a flexible core and a sharp, brittle edge, Aidan has received a weapon which seems fitting for both European stances as well as the Japanese practice of using the act of drawing the sword as a cutting motion. Bringing his weapon forward from over his dominant shoulder, Drake could very well attempt a seamless downwards arc - as opposed to a katana's upwards and transversal path. The fact that the blade is bound to him also means that it may compensate for the broadsword's more limited initial movement range. He may essentially call the sword into being from any arm position, without needing to reach for the tattoo's effective sheath of sorts.

As metallurgy has shown that broadswords and katanas have roughly equal stopping power, Drake is honestly wielding little more than an exotic katana shaped like a Western blade. The weight difference is negligible, the balance point is one he will naturally train for...

Yes, I do fancy the idea of English swordmaking giving pause to Iwata-san's crazed colleagues, if any still remain."

[IamLEAM1983]

Has anyone tried to buy your sword or Bucky's in the past?

[IamLEAM1983]

"My sword cane, stolen from me? I think this may very well force me to consider the use of these Emoticons of yours... My dear boy, to attempt to remove anything from my residence without my knowing of it, you would have to remove Bagley from the house. Bagley whom, I shall remind you, is a genius loci. Who cannot be extricated from Holden Hall. Whatsoever.

Let us assume someone manages this unrealistic feat, however. For the Hell of it, as the youngsters say... The blade is secured by the haft of the cane, and only I know the precise amount of pressure and the minute twists required to open it. If those thieves were to sell it unopened, they could fetch themselves a fair price, I believe. Somewhere around two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

The idea of someone stealing Shamus' sword really is just as ridiculous. Again, Bagley would never permit it. Even then, his odachi is a veritable monster of tempered Japanese steel and crude iron. I have known men and women capable of feats of supernatural strength, and they all strained in an attempt to lift it. It requires the armature's associated hydraulics to be put to use as a weapon. Old CHAP models could wrest it from Shamus' hands, I believe, but these old metal-encased beefeaters would lack the associated techniques to put it to good use. Having been forged and made expressly for Gorobei Iwata, this temple sword is now Bucky's uniquely designed possession.

Steal it, and you've earned yourself a cumbersome giant bandsaw blade that would be worth as much as my sword cane - but only to metallurgists and weapon specialists who are more than well versed in the daring and reckless art of forging kitaiteki ordnance."

[IamLEAM1983]

And what do you think of all the WWII knockoffs the American soldiers brought back?

[IamLEAM1983]

"Mortal swordsmiths from the Land of the Rising Sun shake their heads in shame at the thought of the factory-produced... facsimiles of their painstaking craft, while immortal ones remember spending sleepless nights drowning in sake and contemplating seppuku.

Of course, if they are here to tell the tale, they've heard the voice of reason and realized that Hirohito's folly would never spell the end of bushido. I've never heard of some old acquaintances of mine doing the deed - but I have been called in for less heroic assignments where I was asked to fly to Wichita and assess the rusty length of steel some unwitting retiree had forgotten in a corner of their attic.

There is something... sad about the fact of finding the weapon of a powerful daimyo, named and annointed in accordance with Shinto practices, in the crawlspace of a doddering old farmer who came close to selling it to replace a tractor's broken rear axle. As the Sioux claimed enemy scalps, so did the GIs claim Nippon swords - without ever considering the fact that hidden in these hundreds of pounds of dreary and worthless cruft would wait a single blade worthy of its name and purpose.

Skip a few decades and you find this king's raiment standing a forlorn vigil in the back lot of a pawn shop in Pensacola. In some fashion, this is a tragic metaphor for the existence of the Machine Men of Japan. Gorobei's armature escaped it thanks to Shamus, but others were not so lucky. Today, you'll find senile and disarmed souls rusting away in California hospices, stubbornly tied to their Japanese-American descendants; or lying forgotten in some Indonesian dive bar, working thug rounds for Jakarta's crime lords.

Returning to Japan for a few days, shortly after the Battle, I found one of Iwata's old comrades, a man who had gripped one of my arms and challenged the Warring Mountain to cut it off. He'd rotted away on a Hokkaido beach, spot-welding himself to the rocks below after centuries of simply - staring straight ahead and out to sea. Death by degrees, endured in complete stillness, over two hundred years.

I've fought them all and defeated my fair share of them. What I have never done is lack respect towards them. Even old Yoshi, with his garbled chunks of English and his drooling food chunks back into his hospice's plates, is someone I visit periodically. He may have been an enemy of mine, but he was never a hated enemy."

[IamLEAM1983]

Who was Yoshi, exactly?

[IamLEAM1983]

"Yoshi Sanchiro, the Steel Peacock. His armature was designed with acrobatic feats of martial skill in mind, his peculiarly-shaped rear unfurling into a peacock's tail of individual blades - each with secondary limbs to grasp them. A whirling dervish of a swordsman, his skills were so removed from human potential that his mind eventually began to suffer from being constrained in a body that did not allow him to keep in touch, as it were.

I am told he was an eccentric madman with a sword during his living days spent fighting for the Toyotomi shogunate, one who graduated to a cackling spinning top of razor-sharp blades. He was clever, however - clever enough to offer his own indirect tactics to Gorobei's oftentimes preferred frontal assaults. He was fortunate enough to father progeny before his physical death, mechanically assisted Shinto rites returning him to the world of the living in a body that did nothing to stabilize his frayed mind.

He attacked me shortly after my having been knighted by the Queen. I subdued him, severed his phylactery's connection to his armature without removing it and took him to a mechanic. We unbolted his additional limbs and removed his stored blades. I restrained him, re-established the connection and wound his mechanism. He thrashed as I explained to him what I had done. He cursed my name and my family, pulled hard enough that I heard some of his joints creak - and finally broke down.

I had him shipped to America, where his descendants had long been established. Rediscovering the merits of human contact helped him, but it took a few decades for me to realize that as a warrior, he could only truly connect with someone he had sparred against. I paid him an initial visit shortly after joining American service.

I was more than shocked to see him welcome me as a brother. Given a more limited range of movement, his temper cooled down and he began to think again. He'd have, oh, a single generation's worth of clarity before age would gnaw at his mind as surely as his previous madness. You've seen it in elderly mortals before: gestures become repetitious, names are forgotten, one's sense of place is lost, faces are confused...

He forgot his own family and descendants - but obstinately remembers me. He forgets to eat and drink, to wind his mechanism at regular intervals as well as his own trains of thought. He takes in too much oil and then drools all over himself...

If he were aware, he would call for his sword. I am certain of it. He would ask for me to end it.

I would, but his family refuses to consider letting him go. They believe that as he is essentially a Clank, that he can be restored.

I know in my heart of hearts that he cannot."