She didn't know her father's killer, to be fair. The photograph found on his dead body was enough, however, to make her see red. Her lip trembled as she hoisted his shining katana into her weak hands. Its blade sung to her, told her to seek revenge. Her sapphire eyes turned back to her father's mutilated, torn body. She was clumsy. And not at all smart. Barely grown. All she had going for her was a photograph, her father's sword, and his legacy.
The night air ruffled her aqua hair as she sat on the rooftop overlooking the shops and restaurants. The smell of General Tso's and grease hung in the air, the city alive. Paper lanterns lit the streets, people meandering in the soft light. She smiled just a little at the pop of tiny fireworks and confetti-makers. Her father always loved to take her to Chinatown.
"Michiru!" came a quick, young voice. She looked over to see a shy boy of around 6 peering at her. "Nana says there's a phone call for you!" He was gone in a moment after delivering his message and Michiru stood. She looked down to the lively streets, picturing herself for a moment wandering there, evading her father. However, it was never long before he found her, no matter where. Michiru smiled some.
"Thanks, Mrs. S.," Michiru said softly and bowed her head to the elderly lady who held a cordless phone in her hand. The aqua-haired girl took it, lifting it to her ear. "Speak," she whispered.
"I have a lead. You owe me more and more everyday," the cocky, pert voice came. Michiru felt a smile tug at her lips despite herself.
"You can put it on my tab," she replied softly, feeling Mrs. Satoroka's eyes on her back. She turned to the wall, her eyes tracing the faded old wallpaper. "What is it?"
"Well, after getting lost by the postal service five times. Honestly, in Hungary! Who do they even think they are anymore-?"
"Reish," she snapped, impatient. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. "Tell me."
"Oh! Right. Anyway, your enlarged fine prints arrived. I got a hit on one of the signs in the background. Sacramento. I couldn't get the exact date without the photo itself..."
"Forget it. That's enough. Thanks." She hung up, clicking the button on the phone. She turned and flashed the elderly woman a smile. "Just my friend Reisho. He bought my bus ticket so it looks like I'm out of here." She lied easily. It was one of the things she did best of all.
"Friend of family?" The old lady asked, skeptical.
Michiru gave her another sweet smile. "Something like that. Anyway, I'm going to say goodbye to San. It's been so nice of you to take me in like this." She went into the little boy's room, sitting down on his bed. He peered at her from beneath his Jackie Chan bedsheets and she smiled some, reaching to ruffle his dark hair. "I'm leaving, kiddo," she said softly.
The child's eyes widened and he leapt to hug Michiru, taking the girl by surprise. "You can't! You're the only good babysitter ev-er!"
Michiru smiled and laughed. "I'll come back someday, okay?"
"Promise?"
Michiru had promised, but she knew it was unlikely she'd keep it. She couldn't afford to as she was. Perhaps with a new name, a new identity...
The bus ride from San Francisco to Sacramento felt eons long. She spent the time pondering, wondering if this would finally be her big break. For a year she had spent her time running, never stopping, needing to find that person.
Her mind wandered. There had been so much blood. Her father had died quickly, his throat slit with another's sword. He wore his best suit, his greying teal hair slicked back. Above the blood and silk sat the photograph. Michiru's hands hesitated over its aura. At last, grief capturing her heart, she had taken it. A polaroid, it seemed innocent enough. However, as she looked closer, the image of her father and a blonde person had her wondering. A calling card, she finally denounced. The killer leaving clues.
Although her heart had begged her to stay, to give her father a proper burial, to see him off right, she had left. Her eyes fell upon her father's treasured katana, its blade long and shining silver, etched with words in their native Japanese, and deadly sharp. Their last remnant of the place they had called home.
Michiru leaned her head back against the bus seat, ignoring the sound of a baby cooing nearby, of an old lady knitting a few seats ahead. There had been no information about her father's killer. The photo was all she had, but her gut told her she was right. What had been so wrong about her father wanting to give his family a proper life? Who had it angered to see him quit the business to raise his daughter in America?
Inside her coat, she felt for the photo, taking it out. It held all the hate and love in her world. On one side, her loving father, and on the other, his killer. Rain pattered on the bus's roof as they roared down the highway upstate. She wondered to herself if her father had entered the business in this way, too. Had a loss inspired him to wield the sword and seek blood? She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning her head against the long case which held her beloved weapon, trying to listen to its secrets. A gun was loud, its musings a yell, but the sword, old fashioned and rare in their line of work, only whispered.
Sacramento brought back few memories. Perhaps an aquarium? Michiru had been too young. She checked into a motel on the outskirts of town. She took a long bath, scenting the water with lavender and jasmine. As she relaxed, she collected her thoughts.
Assassins were the things of legend. No one believed they existed, for their use in high profile cases was rare. The ones that were well known were quickly covered up and shoved under the rug. There was no way the FBI or any group anywhere would want people knowing exclusively about the kind of work Matsumo Kaiou and dozens before him had done.
Michiru's fingers skimmed the pages of her father's journal. She had discovered it in the desk her father had worked at in San Francisco, in the den of their house. After assassinations, he had taken up a more humble profession: accounting. Michiru knew now how many people must have wondered why they could afford a huge house on the salary of an accountant, but they never asked. Turning her pages back to the diary, she read.
"Assassins are far too useful for them to let anyone know we exist. We crawl in the shadows of every government of every country, doing the dirty work like rats in a sewer. To hold our tongues, we are paid an extraordinary amount of money for the act of killing. It is not something I am proud of, but I am unfortunately efficient at it. Michiru is five now, and as sharp as a tack. She asks what daddy does, and I tell her I count people's money. It wasn't entirely a lie... I did get a degree. And now, I count the money of the dead. I know at least she will be set for life..."
Michiru raised her eyes to the black backpack sitting innocently on the hotel's ugly floral comforter. Inside was a few thousand in cash and plenty of checkbooks for her personal bank account. Upon the death of her father, two million U.S. dollars was wired to her, from an unknown source. Her father spoke to many people, privately and in person, and Michiru had no clue which of them would have done it. Perhaps the killer... taunting her.
Michiru dressed before dawn, sliding into a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt that said 'HAPPY PANDA' on it. She tied her hair up, making her look even younger than the 16 year old she was. She looked into the mirror, seeing the young girl she used to be. She would blend in seamlessly now. She grabbed the backpack and the long capsule box, shaking with excitement.
A.N.: Yet another in the "Fuseki and Lostinhersong" WT collection! :D I hope you all enjoy it! We are working on our stories and putting them out there, so please be patient with us. We recently moved and acquired a bird, which has been fun! I currently have a story coming into the final process.
Hopefully update soon! Please review :)