Snakehead

Length: Short Story (3-4 Chapters, 11,000 words)

Synopsis: Meet Ermita: the Organization's man in the West, professional recruiter with a keen eye, and the exclusive 'parent' to the Organization's Eye, Galatea. But which of these roles does he put first? (Implied Ermita x Galatea.)

Disclaimer:This goes without saying: I don't own Claymore or any of its characters.

Snakehead (MANDARIN: 蛇头; she tou) – Chinese term for leaders who organise and deal in human trafficking and smuggling… (Longman's Dictionary of Contemporary English)

1. The Price of Flesh

When I joined the organization, they considered me promising enough to set a full panel of three dark-faced, hoarse-voiced shadows to speak to me. All they did was pose me two questions.

What was your previous occupation?

Self employed. I thought for a moment and then added for dramatic effect: self employed, slave-trader.

How did you determine the quality of your personnel?

That question seemed extremely straightforward: if they can survive me, and their trip to their destination, and if they don't rebel against their masters – I'd say they would be worth purchase and risk involved.

The dark-haired man in the centre spoke quietly to his two comrades. The outline of his face flashed back in my direction.

Excellent. The job's yours. Let's consider your wages.

"Tangerines! Tangerines from Yenica! Two beras apiece!"

The sixth day of every month was market day in the town of Aluccur. A town resembling a neatly disarrayed mass of homes and business, perched along the western ridge, only on market day would traffic into the town treble with swarms of people converging from the drab hilly regions of the south-west.

"You won't get trout or salmon any fresher than this anywhere else!"

The crowd elbowed their way along: a viscous, squirming heap of humanity thronging in morbid fascination of the sellers' cries. They flowed through the gates, without even a second glance from the guardsmen keeping a distracted watch.

Too easy. Too many people.

"Come come! Prime cut of beef from the Aluccur fields! Very tender! Must buy! Must buy!"

Eyeing the dangling slice of meat via the butcher's hyperbolic persuasion, he caught the man's line of vision. Even with a cleaver in hand and the tributaries of reckless blood streaming from his apron, the butcher recoiled, dazed and alarmed. So much for the prime cut of beef, he mused. He irritably saw the butcher's disapproving gaze fixated on his back, like the downward thrust of a dagger. Ah well, this is market day, he thought. No one was supposed care about strangers and odd-looking characters.

He jostled into the thick of the market-marveling crowd. Where are the two of you? He loathed the multitudes closing in all around him. But an order is an order, he reminded himselfrepeating his directives like a prayer: recruit offspring and 'assist' to clean the town. 'Assist' was, metaphorically, a treacherous word to him. Still, he tried to channel his thoughts into extracting relevance from background static.

But the people around him stood like walls, funneling the sellers' yells like an echo in a deep forest.

"Grapes off my vineyard! Best in this valley!"

"A hundred beras for these lovely steel knives!"

"Who will buy this lovely, sweet girl? Look at the smoothness and elegance of…"

He turned, all his prior concentration numbed. Sight and hearing collaborated to find the source of the sellers' coaxing voice. Through the dense crowd he pinpointed the man and his merchants – his loose thoughts racing in anticipation – but to his dismay all he saw the man brandishing gel,animal-producegel –

The man was caressing it repeatedly as supposed proof of its usefulness.Since when did girl and gel sound so familiar, he chided himself.

But he could almost imagine that same merchant advertising a young maiden, probably no more than fifteen, on that same pedestal with those same words:

Who will buy this lovely, sweet girl? Look at the smoothness and elegance of her skin. She will make a good maidservant – day or night, in bed or out of it!

No– he shrugged the thought from his head. Stupid westerners and their accents. He paused. That's quite a lame excuse.

His legs brought him away from the luscious calls of the man selling animal gel, back to the section where bloody chunks of meat and lumps of farm produce where being purchased and bartered. Don't get distracted by food. A man deliberately knocked into him, a woman eyed him with mistrust and a child, upon meeting his eye, scrambled back in tears to his mother.

The crowd swirled around him, a slow motion blur of apathetic faces. I must focus on seeking them out, he insisted. As he let the faces in the crowd transcend into hazy, incoherent colours, he dug from the chatter and noise the voices which stood out, succinct and clean from the filthy market.

"What a shame," went one.

"Indeed. Poor girl, mother at the age of thirteen and homeless," said another.

"Poor wrench."

Almost,he thought over and above the shouts and yells of market-day enthusiasm. Another person rammed into his shoulder. But he kept his patience.Almost –

"The Father says she will stay at the cathedral until her child is weaned –"

At last!

"HEY YOU! What do you think you're doing?"

Ermita's eyes flushed sunlight into his senses, recovering from his meditation – only to find a stout, blustering lady waving a blade at him. Instinct for defence was stalled only – just – by observation as the woman lowered her blade to de-scale the pallid, miserable piece of meat she gripped with her left hand.

"So," she addressed him again fiercely, "Anything from this spread, instead of blocking my customers, stranger?"

He eyed the heap of gasping, mouth-open carcasses of fish piled in the back of an open carriage, noting the stench ­ (and flies) for good measure.

"Certainly, my lady. I'd like a nice piece of trout," he put on his most pleasant voice. He suppressed a smile as the fishmonger's eyes widened in abstract surprise, "and smoke it well for me."

The surroundings stabilized: the fishmonger preparing trout over a slow fire, the crowd, the market, Aluccur. My job here's half done. Now to the dirty work. He took a hasty, half-hearted glance through the milling mass of humanity. If you don't show yourself soon – a distant prompting unnerved him – you'll have a sword through your head, wretch –

"There you go, stranger," the woman stuffed the slab of smoked trout into his hands. Ermita absent-mindedly mimicked the motion with an unconscious quantity of beras. "Stranger, stranger…"

He did not bother paying attention: "Take the remainder for your trouble," he quipped. He turned and took off – straight into the chest of a strapping, long-armed youth.

"What do you want?" the youth snarled.

Ermita grinned. "Peace be to you too, my yoma friend."

The youth stiffened unnaturally. He spat: a silver spoon of spittle fell on Ermita's chest, narrowly missing his chin. "You – you cradle-snatcher. Heaven curse you."

"If you aren't cursed already," Ermita retorted casually. "You better leave. I have a warrior following my shadow who would gladly dye her sword with the likes of you."

This time he clenched his face in satisfaction as the youth retreated back several steps. Was that fear mixed with anger on that human façade? Still, the youth spat again as he disappeared into the cluttered crush of the market crowd.

Run while you can. He waited and took a bite out of his smoked trout, the previous sensation of ill feeling having evaporated. A chunk of meat he rolled playfully with his tongue. At that very moment, a profound but comfortably familiar presence intruded into his thoughts.

Galatea. He swallowed the seasoned meat, and a burst of basil, rosemary and parsley erupted in his throat like a warm wine on a winter night. About time.

In between the time he sensed and actually saw her, he had the opportunity to purchase a bottle of fine southwestern wine (rumoured to be the sweetest in the continent). He tucked the bottle away into his jacket, donned his cloak and put on his face covering. People were openly staring at him now. No matter, nobody will remember the face underneath this veil anyway.

Dressed like an apparition of the afterlife, Ermita tailed the bright, persistent feeling to where he knew his Claymore – no, his 'child' – would be waiting. Time to watch the show.

He picked his way across outstretched arms and blocking bodies till he neared an intersection. He was just on time.

"Claymore!"

The crowd underwent a drastic shift of momentum. It ceased movement, lurched in all directions, then stood absolutely still, like an animal confronted on all sides by baying foes. Peeking through sweaty bodies with withering stench of exertion, he saw men and women from afar back off –

– To reveal a tall, svelte lady clad in with imposing, gleaming armour. Finally, she arrives. Strapped to her back and sheathed, she bore an unmistakable, massive sword – the trademark of monster-killers. Flowing like liquid, her long tresses of silver hair seemed convinced by the slight wind to billow gently behind her. They framed a genuinely elfin, beaming face – a portrait of serenity.

But she parted the throngs as if she was the personification of pestilence. No one dared to let themselves be touched by her shadow.

"Silver-eyed witch!" someone hissed.

"Why is she here? On market day?"

"Don't look at her, children. You'll go blind!"

The man beside Ermita was uttering prayers with a quick whisper. A child covered her eyes with her hands as she passed by.

At least she didn't run away crying, he reasoned.

"Peace be to you, citizens of Aluccur. And thank you for your appreciation," she said aloud. Her voice sounded like a gentle wind passing through the meadows on a cool day. "I'm here strictly for business only. I apologise for the inconvenience. Please leave me to my work."

The silver-eyed warrior was now observing the crowd with her sweeping, sparkling eyes. His thoughts drifted to the youth he met earlier. I sincerely hope you ran away.

Intrigued, or fearful of running, the judgmental crowd watched the silver-eyed warrior sift through the crowd, her eyes invisibly filtering out human from monster – if there was any monster to begin with. They stood, as if enchanted, when she took several steps forward, and approached a gang of other youths, some armed with bludgeons.

Ermita knew what she would say even before the words exited her mouth: "Come peacefully," she said. Her voice was audible enough to be heard by everyone watching. The monster-killer who gives second chances, eh? That should be your un-official nickname.

"She's insane. Those kids have been in the town since they were born!"

As soon as she had issued the threat, a mob of youthful henchmen fanned out, surrounding her, and at the same time shielding their apparent leader – the same youth Ermita had talked to earlier – in a bludgeon-armed semi-circle of thuggish bodies.

"I gave you an opportunity. But you still choose to hide behind humans," she addressed him directly. "That's not very smart."

The youth smirked. "Watch your tongue, witch. Don't tempt me to take more lives – after I'm done with you."

The warrior sighed, then slowly unsheathed her sword, earning laughs from all around, especially the gang of youthful henchmen, who enclosed her tightly in an almost-perfect circle of bodies. I hope you know what you're doing, Galatea, he mused. Remember your place among humans. But, anticipating excitement, he decided to take another bite of smoked trout as he waited for the next move.

"Your blade won't work in such a small area, witch," someone crowed.

Clang. Ermita blinked – I didn't see that. Again: Clang. He let out a gasp of awe as he realised her moves – clang – and when he next took a closer look, a mass of sprawled bodies lay in perfectly mathematical arc around the warrior, with only their increasingly agitated leader standing.

It took several moments, and it was all over. But the warrior confirmed his theory when, leveling her blade point-blank at the youth's face, she said aloud: "It's a mistake even humans make, but the blade is not the only part of a sword that's useful." The youth cringed, backing away. "Just because I can't kill them, doesn't mean that will stop me from killing you."

The others lay scattered around, bludgeons forgotten. Nice move, he thought. A quick, blunt blow to the head with hilt of her sword. He took another bite of trout, crunching down a bone. I must recommend this move to other warriors.

"Wait!" the youth protested. "Don't I get another chance?"

In an instant his features appeared to turn slightly angular and feral. But the warrior moved equally swift, and as the multitude on onlookers blinked, the youth-turned-yoma was clutching his side, slouched against the wall. The warrior corrected her posture – from striking position – and shook her sword, discoloured with the faintest taint of purple.

"No, you don't," she declared softly.

The youth-turned-yoma's slouching frame splintered into eight pieces of flesh.

The crowd recoiled in fear. The youth-turned-yoma's henchmen took the chance to flee. And Ermita, crushed another bite of meat between his teeth. Time to stop hiding, and he moved into the clearing.

"A clean kill!" he commended, separating himself from the crowd, applauding. As always: clean and with style.

The warrior's eyes narrowed. He took offence at the less than enthusiastic greeting – you're never glad to see me after you've finished your work, aren't you?As he approached her, the crowd decided it was not worth watching what would happen next, and dispersed hastily, whispering overtly.

"Ermita," she addressed him. "Why did you choose to enter the town before me? You could've alerted the yoma that I was coming."

Well – you gave him a chance to escape too. "I have other business to see to in this town, Galatea, which you'll know soon enough."

Her eyes shot to the smoked trout and the bulge in his coat. "Like feasting on meat and wine?"

He returned a look of slight annoyance at her. "Think of it as reconnaissance," he added.

"Pardon me –"

An elderly man stood, just outside of range from their conversation, hesitant to interrupt. He croaked when she turned her gaze on him: "As – as magistrate, I'm duty-bound to pay you this fee –"

Galatea did not have the patience to let him finish; she lazily intoned the usual phrase which accompanied every successful kill:

"A man in black will come later to collect payment for –

"Nonsense," Ermita cut her off. She eyed him questioningly, as he received the packets of beras and gold pieces too thankfully. "We apologise for the timing, but still we are honoured to do business with the people of Aluccur, O magistrate." He scooped the entire handful of coins and gold pieces into his cloak. That's at least fifty thousand beras worth of currency. "Heaven forbid there we pass by this road again. Peace be with you."

The magistrate backed away one step, but still responded as polite as he could, even with a hasty nod to Galatea. "And peace be upon you too." A turn, and he vanished into the multitude of buyers and sellers giving the black-cloaked man and the armour-clad warrior a wide berth.

"What are your orders, now?" Galatea looked to Ermita, strained. She dutifully avoided the subject of him receiving payment. "Because there are no yoma for many, many miles."

There's still business to fulfill. He finished the last remains of his meal. This final portion tasted stale.

"I – pardon – we have business at the cathedral," and he started off without even waiting for her response.

But she matched his pace, even through as he weaved in and out of startled people. Still, he slowed for her. Her face showed gave no indication of exertion; her eyes still brightly – defiantly – glistened, always careful of his many intentions. She brushed aside a lock of hair from her face – you and your principles about beauty – I can never catch you when you're not beautiful – wait, he checked his thoughts – when she looked him in the eye, he forced himself not to return the glare –

"Tell me, since when did you decide to collect the fees for successful kills, Ermita?" she asked. The tone in her voice, he noted, catching her mouth curl in the slightest of smiles. She's trying to bait me. "And have I done something so wrong that my contact does not even bother to explain what we're doing now?"

He chose to answer the question indirectly: "Trust me. I'll explain soon enough, and you'll understand."

"Trust," Galatea made that word a demeaning monologue of doubt. "As in trust you the same way you always tell me to? Trust you like a parent?"

He huffed irritably. You push me too far, Galatea.

"Do you have a choice?"

Galatea chose to stay silent.

"It's not your mission to ask so many questions," he chided her. I don't like putting you in place. His strong voice eased. "We're going to the cathedral, as I've said. Organization's orders: Recruitment."

The expression Ermita saw on her face was compound: grateful, but rebellious as the same time. Like a child who's been scolded by her mother for something she did right. Yet, Galatea said softly: "Thanks. That's all I wanted to know."

They completed the rest of their walk in silence. He purposely led them through small, clustered alleyways devoid of people. People who did encounter them by shunned them as if they were diseased and dying; residents bolted their doors and sealed their windows as they passed by their houses. The usual welcome, Ermita noted, brushing aside these gestures simply. Galatea, striding on his left, held a serenely blank face. Nearby, mothers chastised their children for looking at her.

They broke from the shadow of the houses into an open square, backed by a cathedral – no, it's just a mission. A hushed silence gripped those present in the square. But he led Galatea through them and to the doors of the mission, where a man in priestly garb confronted them.

"I know what you're looking for," he blocked their path, trying to look courageous but failing miserably. "This orphanage belongs to the people of Aluccur, not for dwellers of the underworld like your kind."

Galatea's fists curled. It's not like her to flare up over such cheap insults – still, this is not the place for fighting – automatically, he stepped in between them, fingering deep into his cloak.

"Peace be to you, good Father. Please understand that we seek nothing of you," he spoke, specifically loading his words with compliment and courtesy. He fished from his cloak a leather pouch bursting with beras. "All we seek is an audience with an orphan you took in yesterday.

"And let this little entrance fee be evidence of our goodwill."

"Ermita…" he heard her, on the verge of protest, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

The priest's eyes drew into slits; his hands slipped to the sacred emblem on his mantle. "Just who do you think I am," he demanded.

Ermita let out an obvious sigh. His other hand pulled to the surface a tightly-bounded packet of gold sticks, pieces and shells. That's almost everything from earlier. He smiled. "You're a good man, father. You're a hardworking priest in urgent need of better resources and a larger mission."

The shift in mood was quiet – and instantaneous; but the priest did not immediately accept the gold. Instead, he backed away, the look on his face still hostile and fearful. Then, with his hands behind him, he opened the doors to the mission just enough for him to slip inside. Good acting: give onlookers the impression he's running inside to hide from us. The doors, left ajar, were a symbol of acknowledgment.

"Why fight when you can buy away disagreements?" Ermita said to Galatea, his voice nicely-pitched with pride, as he led the way in. "It's much cleaner."

He knew she was forcing herself to be quiet. Because she knows I'm right, he told himself.

Once within the building, his senses numbed him, dislocated by the stuffy interior and the sharp stale scent of human waste. Several tapers, trailing wax like clumps of loose teeth, kept enough light for him to make out the shapes of beds pressed against the furthest wall and the dark forms of bodies on them. The priest was nowhere in sight; Ermita left the packet by a pew. But looks like he does need a new building after all.

A cry echoed nearby. That's it. He nodded to her, and stepped forward in the direction of the sound. With an outstretched arm, he seized a low-burning taper from its cleft in the wall, thrusting out before him, waving away the dank gloom. There you are, my child. He halted: below the frail glow of light lay a young girl, dirty and shirking away from the light, nursing an infant.

"Good day, my dear. You know why we are here," he forced himself to put on his sweetest, most proper voice. "Pass us your child. Receive the agreed compensation."

The girl twisted away from the light. In this filthy, abandoned corner, he thought she reminded him of the youth-turned-yoma: helpless, with no options, much like a Claymore recruit getting her first beating – the thought rose to him savagely – a little angry, a little sad, but mostly uncertain – unconsciously or under instinct's influence, he found himself turning back to Galatea –

You're letting her get away, he reminded himself.

He pursued the girl, creeping away to camouflage herself in some dingy sanctuary. But in just two strides, Ermita was face-to-face to her again; her feral, hysterical face, washed with saliva or sweat or both, appeared angular in the poor light, and she raised a clawed hand to repel the light from the taper.

"What if –" she began in a hoarse, deep voice, billowing from beneath the flows of unkempt, wild hair. "What if I've changed my mind?"

He sighed – again. He gestured the patient form eyeing the scene with uncertainty: "Galatea, your sword please."

"Ermita, I don't think –"

"No need to think. Just draw your sword," his voice raised itself from request to command.

He saw that did as she was told – however reluctantly – and unsheathed it with one move, fast enough for the air between them to constrict then burst out with a splicing sound. By then, he had already uncovered from his cloak another package of numerous gold pieces.

"My dear, there are two alternatives for you right now," he said, ensuring a solemn tint to his voice. "That sword or these ten thousand beras you decided on earlier." He paused to let the choice sink into the girl's head – if she still is capable of rational thought. "Just pass over your child."

The girl stirred, exposing an infant wrapped neatly in swaddling clothes in the crook of her arm. She meekly held her out; Ermita seized the child and, examining closely, chucked the packet of gold pieces into the girl's hands. Enough to get you out of this wasteland.

He looked down at the baby in his arms. They told me that she was a few months' old but she's barely older than a week. He could not help but scowl. The organization and their questionable tactics. As he turned and headed for the exit, something clenched his chest, a dully familiar but tersely physical sensation. What? Guilt?

But he buried it away. He walked out from the mission's doors when Galatea called out to him. He stopped to see her.

"Did I tell you how much you repulse me?" she said, before completely passing him by.

He cradled the baby, allowing himself a small smile. I know. He took in her retreating figure. But I believe it's worth it. A full moment went by before another thought crashed into him.

What in the world am I thinking?

NOTES:

Many thanks to Tempest35 (Arakan7) for his relentless beta-reading, editing & comments on this story. The writer is only responsible for the idea; the proofreader presents it out nicely.

And – YES – finally, the freak idea which I happened to think on during my youth camp in 2007 is at last in words and on I have been a quiet visitor to Claymore fanfiction circles for too long.

I decided to use Ermita for this story because there aren't many stories on the men in black from the Organization. The next few chapters will try to explore more in-depth the 'parent-daughter' relationship Ermita has with Galatea. Also, this story is not an AU. I won't mention the time frame, as time & place play an important element in this story. Anyway, I think it's already quite clear.

As much as I'm sensitive to prevent any displays of out-of-character-ness, do please comment what you think of both characters (reviews are always welcome), because feedback will help me determine how I'll conclude – and avoid me making the same tragic mistake as I did in my last fic.

Last edited: 18.03.2008