if you would like them, cross-post links can be found on my profile! Additionally, you can find a link there to my twitter (_syviki), where I post micro-status updates for any additional chapters. ((but i'm getting ahead of myself now c':))
Thanks for reading on~ c:
"I'm home."
There's a clang, and then a head appears in the doorway leading to the kitchen. "Welcome back!"
Nice, apron around his waist and normally unruly hair held back by both bright headphones and a clamp behind his head, grins at Hajime as she passes by. He's ignored; Hajime shuffles to the windows on the opposite end of the apartment and tugs the shutters open. She gives the news channel playing on the TV a lazy glance, then walks over to place her gloves atop the armrest of the single lounge chair in the corner with intent on reserving it as hers.
A pot whistles. Nice goes back to the small stove, removes the lid of the pot, and peers inside.
Hajime's presence joins him. Nice senses how the sound waves from her steps interacts with the music in his ears. She's chosen the red fox slippers today.
"You're later than usual," he says, giving the pot a stir. "How'd it go?"
Hajime sniffs. "You burnt the bottom of the curry again."
02: what lies don't know
Two bowls sit at the low table, atop plastic placemats adorned with yellow tiger designs. Once, they each held white rice and a generous helping of curry.
Now, not a single grain of rice remains. Save the golden track-marks left behind from spoons scraping sauce off the sides, they're both absolutely empty.
"Okay," says Hajime.
[ Okay…? ]
Nice deadpans. "I spend ages working on this, it's not entirely black, and all you have to say is just 'okay'? No 'thanks for the meal' or anything?"
"You burnt the curry," is the reply, like it's an explanation.
"It's not an explanation!"
Nice tries to put on his headphones, but his fingers get caught in the clamp still in his hair.
[ Attempt unsuccessful. Plan B: Start. ]
The clamp is yanked off ungratefully, then thrown. Hajime tilts to the side; it soars past her head, hits the wall across the room, bounces off, and lands wedged behind the stand below the TV.
"I'm not helping you get that." Hajime rises to her feet. "Thanks for the meal."
[ Do you wish to resign? ( Y / N ) ]
[ … ]
Wordlessly, Nice pushes his bowl aside and rests the side of his head atop the table. He's still able to see Hajime take a few steps to the side and watches her stretch after the meal. The late-afternoon sun filters light through the shutters beside her, illuminating her clothes and skin in a staggered, golden glow.
Nice stares at the scar on the back of her leg. Nearly twenty centimetres of ridges carve shadows into her left shin.
Minutes pass where only the TV speaks in the background, but neither of them are listening.
"How was it?" says Nice.
Hajime rolls her shoulders. Shrugs.
"Alright." She reaches for her pocket for a folded piece of paper. "I got the agreement from her."
[ 'Her': The landlord. ]
"She hasn't noticed that the rent in this area will rise around next week?"
Hajime gives him a look. It says, remember who you are.
Nice opens his mouth, changes his mind, then closes it again. He opens the receipt and skims through the details.
"That's our next three months covered, then," he muses. "Good thing we don't have any loans…"
There's no reply. Hajime acts like she hasn't heard him and takes a seat on the lounge. At that moment, a sudden burst of colour on the TV's screen draws their attention.
Snap. The world warps: Nice moves; he's activated his Minimum to reach the remote beside her and turned the volume up instantly.
"—Breaking news," says the newscaster. "Yokohama police have arrested a suspect they believe is responsible for the serial bombings that began six weeks ago and has since taken countless lives. This comes as a result of an anonymous tip sent to the force the day before yesterday. A spokesperson for the police has said that—"
The screen shows footage of a broad-shouldered person being hustled into a police car, face buried in a jacket to avoid being seen. In the background, one of Yokohama Chinatown's greatpaifang gates is blocked off by a line of police; between it and the car, a young man with white-lavender hair is talking to another officer on the scene.
Hajime doesn't miss the way Nice's eyes soften and his smile creeps wider. Nor how Nice doesn't stop looking at the man.
[ You… ]
"Well," says Nice, after the screen changes, "I'm suppose I'm off, then."
Hajime doesn't respond. Nice doesn't wait for an answer, collecting the dishes and hopping to the kitchen. The bowls and spoons clatter as they land in the sink. Water rushes for them to soak; it's switched off some seconds later, and then Nice emerges – apronless – to swap his headphones for a pair of non-descript earphones instead.
"I tried making onigiri today, they're in the fridge if you get hungry," says Nice. He's pulling on his shoes, grabs his keys. "Thanks for everything, Hajime. Be back later!"
Snap; he's gone. The front door closes behind his shadow.
Hajime turns the TV off and pulls her knees to her chest. She tries to quash the quivering in her stomach, nervousness that had begun ever since Nice had laid eyes on the charming Superintendent Art moments ago.
[ Nice, I… ]
Her stomach snarls.
"Don't thank me, Nice," she mutters to herself, then pauses. "…If I eat your onigiri, I might die."
It feels like there are media personnel on every inch of the sidewalk. Reporters, photographers, cameramen with an unblinking third fish's eye, and boom operators with a second head hanging off a neck attached to their arms. Among others Art could not pick out of the crowd in order to name.
"This's turned into a circus."
Art ignores the media with the ease that comes with practice, inclined to agree. He makes a note to investigate if they have a source in the police department; such a turnout is abnormal.
He glances toward Gasquet approaching him from afar. "It does resemble it a bit, doesn't it?"
"Hardly. I'd say it's more than 'a bit'." Gasquet swaps the eye he keeps closed so that he can look at Art directly. "How is the search going?"
"Negative. Looks like the area's safe and clean. The last of the bomb squad should be retreating now – we can get these roads unblocked and the city moving again."
Art has some amount of regret for the financial cost of evacuating such a dense area, especially since they're outside of Yokohama Chinatown. Hopefully there's no lasting damage done to its reputation. Better to be safe than sorry.
Or so he tells himself, anyway, and will tell the press conference being held later.
It's the best decision to take (for a person with no Minimum).
The media are leaving now. Equipment's being swallowed by the trunks of cars or sealed within the backs of vans. There are a few people still remaining, lurking, closing up their stories or searching for anything left to do.
"Mr. Gasquet?" asks Art, once he's certain that there is nothing left for him to oversee. Already, the public are slowly returning to their everyday lives, trickling back into the area.
"Hm?"
"This Feng… how would I find him?"
It almost looks like Gasquet tenses. By the time Art turns so he can see the older man directly instead of out the corner of his eye, it's gone. Art chalks the action to the movement of the last police car having driven past his partner on its way to the station.
His imagination must have combined the two.
"No clue," says Gasquet. "He's like a shadow. Maybe you could try asking Mao."
"Mao?"
"Brown hair, average build, oriental features. Wears a pair of small, dark spectacles. He's usually dressed in dark green Chinese-cut clothes and probably eating."
Art begins searching on reflex, not entirely sure why, and immediately spots a person beneath the paifang gate leading into Chinatown – a person that happens to match Gasquet's description exactly.
"…like him?"
Gasquet pauses mid-stride.
"That's him."
Mao, chewing consideringly on a bun, is watching them so intently that Art wonders how they didn't notice him before. No; upon second glance, his stare is entirely for Gasquet.
When Gasquet starts walking toward him, Mao turns the corner and disappears deep into Chinatown. Art follows despite having lost sight of the man the instant he joined the crowds; fortunately, Gasquet knows where he's going, so it's some several turns later through streets surrounded with red and gold that the two end up facing Mao again.
This time, they're on two sides of a vendor's food cart. And, unlike a normal vendor, Mao isn't smiling.
"Here you are, Art," says Gasquet. He turns to Mao. "I'd like a steamed bun, please."
Mao lifts the lid of the steamer beside him. Two buns are inside.
"That will be—"
He's cut off by the roll of notes presented to him. Most are covered by Gasquet's hand to prevent people in the street from seeing. Except Art, who can read the denomination of the outermost note because of where he stands.
Ten thousand yen.
"I have an outstanding fee," says Gasquet. "Please, keep the change."
Mao stares at Gasquet, even as the steamer continues puffing precious warm air outside its confines. Finally, he takes the money and performs the trade. Art wonders what the fee had been for, then dismisses the thought instantly. Gasquet's business is nothing he needs to know.
The farewell exchanged between them when Gasquet excuses himself is brisk. As soon as the man leaves, Art doesn't expect it when a steamed bun is suddenly held toward him.
There's a piece of paper hidden under the bun. Mao's eyes glitter, hinting to knowledge unknown.
"And one for you, sir?"
Art pauses for a moment, then reaches inside his jacket for his wallet. Somehow he knows it's information that won't be worth coins. "How much?"
"Don't worry about the cost," is the reply. "Especially not after that. Please, take it, it's rightfully yours."
Only for a second, there's hesitation. Art takes it anyway.
"Thank you very much," says Art.
Mao inclines his head. There's a faint hint of a secret smile. "I look forward to meeting you again."
There's only one line of text in the note: the address to his apartment, and a time.
4:17 PM.
Art glances at his watch as he waits for the elevator to return to the ground floor. The minute hand is past the seven; it's nearing five. He's half-contemplating if he should take the stairs when the elevator's doors open, beckoning entry in sheepish apology.
When he finally reaches his apartment, nobody is there.
Art isn't sure if the sense of unease in the back of his head is because he'd been expecting someone (Feng) or if it were because of something else–
–That is, not until his instincts scream DOWN! — and he narrowly avoids death by a blade.
Art doesn't pause to look up; he instantly follows through with a roll to create distance, and by the time he's risen to his feet his pistol is already in his hands and his thumb is against the safety. Only then does he take a look at his assailant: a woman whose features are hidden by a ski mask, descending from the air vent and holding a knife raised to her lip.
No; on second glance, there's no cable. She's descending upon her own power. Art looks at the knife again, and realises it's a silver letter opener.
She smiles, bites down on the edge of the letter opener, then throws it at him. It flies with frightening accuracy, the air in the hallway shivers as if to propel it along, and then the Minimum guided projectile crashes into Art's pistol faster than he can blink. The shock of the collision force Art's elbows to unlock and drives the pistol flying backwards and upwards.
Art is only barely able to keep his grip, and stumbles half a step backwards from the excess energy. A closer look at the firearm reveals the letter opener had wedged itself tightly down the length of the barrel; silver exits plastic polymer directly before the chamber. The handle protrudes from the end of the muzzle.
Both damaged and blocked, the pistol would be dangerous to fire.
"Took you long enough to come home, Mr. Superintendent," says the woman. A second letter opener spins above an open palm. "Now die!"
/TBC/
