A Priori

"A mind troubled by doubt cannot focus on the course to victory."

-Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

And just like a great big slap in the face, all traces of idolization were swept from my being. I've had to deal with only one FBI man before, and if I learned anything from that experience it was that NYPD and Government FBI agents were about as compatible as blow-drying your hair in the bathtub. The results were explosive, electric, and often very, very dangerous.

"Hold on a minute Sparky. I'm not ready to answer your questions just yet. I have some real authority to talk to first if you don't mind the wait." My voice is acerbic, my shoulders lifting under the heavy weight of the blanket. Not that I'm not grateful… just not stupid. His friendly smile remains obstinately in place, the only sign of his irritation in the slight narrowing of his beautiful eyes. He lets out a laugh, the sound reaching right into the depths of my being.

"Hate to break it to you, but I'm not really a patient kind of guy." And with that his large hand encircles my upper arm through the blanket, his fingers fully covering the circumference of my skin. For a moment I allow myself to be dragged behind him, his barbaric manhandling tactics causing me an instant's flabbergasted pause. But the moment ends and I dig my ridiculous heels into the dirty asphalt. Before he can register the change in direction, I twist quickly and gracefully out of his grip, the blanket falling in between us as I leave its warm embrace. Stupid, stupid… goose bumps rise immediately with the contact of the frigid air.

He turns to face my heaving form, anger evident in every fuming breathe I take. If you couldn't already tell, I'm not a big fan of manhandling. Or men, but that's another story entirely. Just when I think he's going to come at me with his top-of-the-line, grade-A Government artillery (And I'm not talking about his gun), he surprises me with a charming grin. I'm tempted to ask the jerk just what's so damn amusing when his wolfish gaze gives me a thoroughly degrading once-over. We're at a standstill. I'm too angry to give in to the fact that I'm standing in an indecently short leather skirt and no tummy or leg coverage (in twenty degree weather), and he's in too good of a position to get angry about, well, anything.

"You look cold." Silence.

"You look like an asshole." Silence.

"Tch. Anger." He grins.

"I'll show you anger, you - "

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything Detective." Comes a surprisingly welcome voice from behind me. He may be a classic pervert in every sense of the word, but at this particular moment there is no other pervert I'd rather have come to my rescue. His gravelly old voice pipes up from behind me again, "Boy, give her back that blanket. Didn't I raise you to be a gentleman?" Saotome responds with that same infuriating grin – the one that hasn't left his face since he managed to leave me trapped in the middle of a back alley with only a bustier and a butt band as coverage against the prying eyes of the male investigative department and the glacially cold breeze.

"Sorry Pops. But no, you didn't." He adds as he tosses the cumbersome blanket to me. Only, I'm too busy being shocked to catch it, so it falls heavily at my boot-clad toes. All eyes follow its decent, lingering on said boots. I stutter, "Chief, I- I have to talk to you. Privately." Saotome's gaze leaps back up to my face, an intellectual glint in his stormy eyes.

I've already made up my mind to voice my concerns. After all, the worst that could happen is that the Chief of Police laughs in my rookie face. But I can't help thinking… I nod unconsciously at my own decision. Turning fully to face the Chief, I toss my ponytail once more over my shoulder and clear my throat. "It's important."

The Chief nods, worry becoming apparent in his haggard face. He looks… older. I begin to follow his retreating form until I hear an appreciative cough from behind me. Whipping around, I snatch the blanket off the ground and wrap it around my shoulders, giving the forgotten FBI agent a look that spoke volumes for my offended fury. Then I began to hurry after Genma once more.

"You think we got the wrong guy?" Genma sputters in astonishment. I hold my shoulders erect, even as I cringe internally. He adds, "But Tendo… you were the one to arrest. I thought you said you caught him in the act. Was this untrue?" I shake my head furiously, urging him silently to feel the same uneasiness that I feel. Something was wrong. So wrong. "Then what's going on?" He asks again.

"Sir, I… I know he was caught, and he fits the profile. Hell, he even said the same damn prayer, but I've been undercover with these girls for almost a month now. If there's one thing I've learned in that time, it's… nothing is ever that easy. And there are differences, like - "

"Enough Akane. You're new here, so I can understand some misgivings on your first takedown. But there is absolutely no reason why we should continue this investigation. Why don't you go on home I get some rest? I think you need it." He nods to someone behind me and turns to stride away. I'm about to protest, to call him back, when a heavy hand settles over my partially opened mouth. A deeply attractive voice warns "Let it go Detective", and even though the tone is friendly it leaves no room for argument. That, as well as the hand clamped firmly over my sealed lips.

"I kind of like you this way. You know, quiet." Mr. FBI says jeeringly, and I reach out to lick his palm. I know it's juvenile, but it's too good a chance to pass up. He curses in surprise.

"That's disgusting! What are you, twelve?" He scolds as he wipes his hand on his expensively pressed trousers. I smile sweetly and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Then my amusement vanishes. The lot is nearly empty, all ambulance and police vehicles absent. The only people left are me, Saotome, and the crime scene investigative workers. How the hell was I supposed to get home? My gaze slowly circles the crime scene, landing on a smug Ranma Saotome. Grinning, he asks, "So… need a lift?"

The drive to my apartment is long, drawn, and torturous. Ranma whistles to a tune that sounds suspiciously like "Que Sera, Sera" while I lean a heavy head against the fogging window and sulk. A shower. That's all I need. That and a box of chocolate the size of Australia. It has literally been weeks since I've tasted chocolate. Or any real food for that matter. This last assignment must have cost me about ten pounds. Tomorrow morning I'll go for a run. Tonight was the night for Ben & Jerry's.

"It's right up here. You can just let me out at the stairs." I add, as he gives the street a precursory glance. The sleek car (who's wondrously expensive brand seems to elude me) pulls to the edge of the sidewalk, stopping on a dime directly in front of the building's lighted stairway. I'm afraid to look over at his dauntingly handsome face. That fear is quickly giving way to anger, however, as I consider the short list of men in my life that I have ever had the privilege of being afraid of. That list includes big brand names like God and Santa Claus, but that's about as far as it goes. I make a habit out of being the tough kid on the block. You know, the little tomboy that's too angry about being stuck with the short end of the gender straw to admit that I'm afraid of a silly little thing like sexual attraction.

"I still need to talk to you about Macpherson." He says gravely, and I finally drag my gaze to meet his eyes. I nod stiffly, letting him know without words that I won't make it easy. I reach for the latch, let myself out, and manage an insincere thank-you. Then I hurry up the stairs, aware of his gaze burning a hole in my spine as I walk away.

Once upstairs, I don't stop walking until I've reached my bedroom. As I pull off my shoes, unlace the bustier, and pull up a pair of sweatpants, I take a moment to look at the emaciated stranger in the mirror. She could change her clothes, but she still looked like a world-weary hooker. I shake my head, grab a couple of my finest towels (the ones without bleach stains), and retreat into the shower for the next hour or so. The water is bitingly cold by the time I get out. My reflection is pale, skinny, and exhausted. Funny, that's how I feel too. I pull on the sweatpants and a t-shirt sporting the faded logo for seven up. An old favorite, the front read "Make seven" only to continue on the back with "Up yours". I was nothing if not classy.

Even as I slouch onto my faded sofa with a pint of frozen corn syrup, dairy product and cookie dough, I know I won't be able to think of anything besides old Benjy. That gnawing on my senses has faded to a dull nibble, but I still can't shake the idea that I arrested the wrong man. I think back to the moment of capture. His back was to me, hands high against the wall as I approached him with a raised gun. He hadn't made an effort to fight me off as I slapped on the cuffs. I pictured is chilly gaze. Smug. Confident in his faith in God. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. I've known my fair share of fanatics and his absolute surety didn't faze me. I return to my delicious tub of heart-attack. My mind shifts to the girl-hooker. The first time, I think, that I began to doubt. Skinny, pale, fiery red hair and regretful eyes… She'd come and gone so quick, it was hard to tell. But I'd bet my badge that I'd seen her before. Now, this didn't really come as a surprise to me since I've been in the company of whores and dealers for the greater part of the last month. But I was almost positive that I'd seen her before my stay in the streets. If only I could remember…

There's a thud behind the door to my bedroom. I suck in my breath, holding it, waiting to hear any other sign of disturbance. Please. All I want is one night of peace. Just one. After several seconds I let my breath go in a relieved whoosh. Still, I'd better keep my gun close. Where had I left it? The kitchen counter. I stand up to retrieve it, raising my hands over my head for a satisfying stretch, when I feel it. A presence.

Bringing my arms down just in time to stave off a hard blow aimed at my shoulder. I let out a strained squeak, ducking in time to avoid a high swinging kick that would have knocked me to the ground. Leaping back and twisting at the same time to see my opponent, all I catch is a figure clad, (predictably) in black. Black muscle shirt, black jeans, black stiff boots, and a knitted mask that covers eighty-five percent of his face. Definitely a man. He was short and relatively slight for a criminal, but there was a telltale bulge in his jeans that was as good a target as any. After being smacked in the forearm by another high-placed kick, I take advantage of his moment of imbalance to catch him where it matters most. He doubles over in pain, eyes squeezing shut, and I almost think it's going to end. Just like that. But like I said earlier, nothing is ever easy.

I near his writhing form in order to knock him out, or cuff him, or something. But just as I am about to make my move, he leaps forward on his toes. A glinting blade slices the air near my head, and I duck forward just in time to avoid certain decapitation. Too late I feel a ripping, and suddenly I'm looking down at my own ponytail of inky locks on the floor. On the floor. As in, not attached to my head. Movement stops abruptly. My eyes widen with utter shock as I feel the ribbon slip from my hair what's left of my gorgeous hair floats to settle gently around my face. I continue to stare uncomprehendingly at the lost mass of my own hair that lies like a desecrated corpse at my bared feet. The enigma in emo has also paused mid swipe, not sure what to make of the sudden change in atmosphere. The air has gone cold around me, and a blind fury breaks out over my vision. I see red, literally, as I imagine this horrible intruder's blood smeared across my tiled kitchen floor where we'd ended up. Anger is generally all-consuming, and mine is no exception.

Growling low in my knotted throat, I whip my head around to see the ugly barber-of-death staring at me in dawning comprehension. Yes, he'd gone too far. No, I didn't believe in second chances or mercy for the enemy. "You killed it", I growl hoarsely as I leap toward his throat with a vengeance, kicking the bewildered man to the ground, I'm straddling him before he has time to cry out. My hands encircle the surprisingly chicken-like neck with a haze floating over my senses. He is going to have to die.

There's a banging on the door. I'm still straddling the Beauty Slasher while his fingers scrape uselessly against my solidly clenched hands. His choking-wheezing noises are the only sound. Except for the damn knocking.

"Not… a good time!" I yell scathingly toward the stranger behind door number one. Silence follows for several long seconds, then a loud explosion pretty much takes care of my front door. I should've known. The Land Lord. I hear a delighted cackle and feel a clinging on my chest half a moment. Looking down through the haze I can see none other than Mr. Too-old-to-ask-permission Happosai groping me through my corny t-shirt logo. I shriek angrily and swat the creeper away, momentarily letting go of his throat and my anger toward the intruder and fully directing it toward the little man who looks no better than a shriveled apricot with trousers on. How he could find pants so small is beyond me.

I advance steadily, heaving my anger in and out, coughing over the dusty plaster that's rising in the room like puffs of powdery smoke. He smiles weakly and raises two tiny wrinkled palms before him. "Now, now Akane… You know how I get when I see a pretty girl…" He adds in a conciliatory gesture. My response is a growl, and the old lecher takes that moment to utter the words that would be the death of him. A questioning look widens his eyes with innocence.

"What happened to your hair?"

I shriek and punt him out the sixth floor window into the honking streets of Manhattan. Breathing deeply, trying to reign in my formidable temper, I whip around to find that my victim has fled the premises. Coward. Wearily I make my way toward the kitchen phone. There's a short three-number dial tone, and I'm answered on the second ring with an efficient greeting.

"Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a break-in…"