The streets were livelier at this time of day; kids still free from school played games outside their parents' shops while others took over alleyways for inventive, not-entirely-legal games, mostly involving showy quirks that posed no real threat. Trekking the few blocks to Hopper Recycling wasn't so bad with the afternoon sun radiating a friendly sort of warmth, rather than its baking oppression of the last few days. It was- truly- a perfect summer day.
I wonder what Sara and Rozu are up to.
Wistfulness and unease nearly caused me to nibble the perfectly-designed ends of my fingernails, meticulously done at last night's Beautify Akua party by the very people now giving me the most anxiety. They'd kill me for even considering such a sinful act.
I'd never been a nail-biter, but it seemed just as soon as my nails began to grow, took the pretty, oval shape of Mom's, they immediately broke, tore, chipped, or flaked. A snagged end on a sleeve, aiming for a door handle and splintering a thumb nail into the hard surface instead. Maybe I'd been cursed by a vindictive classmate once upon a time.
"Just because you suffer from short nails doesn't mean they can't be beautiful, too."
Rozu did the midnight blue base and Sara embellished each tip with near-microscopic art, casting golden swirls and stars until each finger told a continuing tale of the Milky Way.
They'd never seen someone so excited over nail care before. I in turn had never been a walking piece of artwork, of which I attempted to humbly display every chance I got. Rozu proceeded to direct my makeup regimen for Saturday's event until even I could flick the winged liner with near perfection.
It was nice; being here, having friends whose biggest worries were over weather forecasts for astronomy and lakeside lunches, rather than anxiously awaiting villain attacks and debating whether their siblings were criminal megalomaniacs.
They had problems, sure- problems cut from the same cloth that had brought us together. They knew about my carved-out womb and embraced me; time, in turn, revealed Rozu's series of abusive ex-boyfriends, jealous at every turn over the trail of infatuated men that followed her, like bees to a flower, until finally the sentiment boiled into hot-handed anger, leaving prints that didn't wash off.
Her tears smelled like rose oil. Sara had brushed them from Rozu's face with the touch of a lover, gentle in their cleansing until the tap ran dry and a watery smile appeared again, laughing when I made a show of displaying my nails while handing her tissues. I was glad for her attention; it kept me rooted in place, rather than immediately storming the city in search for Jamon Azakuku, severe in my intent to make him pay for his crimes against not just the world, but my friend in particular.
Falling in love with her would be so seamless, so perfectly expected, you wouldn't notice the descent into obsession until the vipers of jealousy had sank fangs into every artery. It didn't excuse the behavior of those men- not in the slightest- but I could, perhaps, understand it, given her addictive allure.
Sara, on the other hand, confused me to all ends.
Her pleasant tones and obscure stories as to why she attended the group sessions, the tranquility she displayed in every movement down to her politely-covered yawns. Sara eluded calmness by every definition of the word, and yet...
And yet her eyes, while appearing in a kaleidoscope of color, corals and pastels and bright, vibrant signals, held a wildness which prowled behind each and every shade, sharp-angled and vaulted. When she wiped away Rozu's tears an animal- wild and full of violent instinct- flickered between her irises like a candle within a lantern. I deeply wanted to know what that caged beast was, and how to earn its trust.
Because Sara still seemed wrapped in darkness, despite her attempts to fool otherwise. What had really led her to our counseling group?
In the pit of my stomach though, I knew- That my friends were far more tethered than they appeared. To a life I knew nothing about. To each other, more than they ever would be me.
To Jamon Azakuku, and his new string of drugs.
The next few days passed quickly; I returned to Rozu and Sara, who coached me through a pulled-apart chignon, bangs and wisps of hair framing my face until I felt like an ethereal princess made tangible, leaving the fairy tale behind.
I didn't understand why I had to burn my fingers, curling it all just to tuck it away, but Sara insisted this step was a prime necessity.
I made sure to tug out every pin before slinking into Hopper Recycling, not wanting to spoil any portion of the look before Saturday. Even if the daydream of meeting up with Shota Aizawa, him in a tux and me in a dress of gossamer with a sapphire ring on my finger, filled my head with soft light that highlighted every embarrassing potential, I didn't want to burst the fantasy of perfection just yet.
The daydreamed man in question already stood around the table with Toro when I walked in, though why the Hopper brothers were there too was beyond me. Half-lidded eyes opened just a little wider when they caught me and my stomach gave a quiet little flop.
I needed to apologize for running away. Again.
The ring was safely secured on a little golden chain around my neck, buried beneath my shirt and cool against my skin. I found myself reaching up every so often, just in case, feeling its weight in more ways than one. His eyes lowered to the hand, and his left cheek gave a little twitch.
Twitch of what? Was he disappointed? Did he think I'd lost it already? You are sort of scatter-brained, Chiyo.
"Hey, there's our girl!" Jiro exclaimed with a cheesy grin large enough to feed an entire family of mice. I swatted at his dumb-shaped head before settling in beside them (and as far away as possible from Toro's milky-eyed glare).
"We've been waiting for quite some time."
"Mm," I said to him noncommittally, turning back to the brothers. "What are you boneheads even doing here? Are you joining the crusade?"
"Nah," Ichiro laughed, though seemed pleased with the mishap. Did he want to be part of this? "We just like being part of things, is all."
"-And keeping tally of how many times our boy looks at you when he thinks no one's looking," Jiro ribbed the dark-haired man to his left. Shota caught his elbow and twisted it, looking bored as the Hopper shouted in surprised pain. He let go at my disapproving frown, however reluctantly.
"Akua, run us through the information again."
I focused, pulled all the strings together in my mind, pinpointing all the crossed wires. I took a breath and began.
"We know that Jamon Azakuku is the most prominent drug lord in Japan- that's nearly common knowledge. Over the past few months, surges of a new drug- the Cure- have popped up in various districts, though the cases are individualized; they're not being distributed through the streets, but targeting specific people- men- who then disappear from their hometowns and are eventually taken into custody, often months later, drug-addled and suffering from near-dissociative fugues. With the letter that was sent to Eraser-" I nodded at the piece of evidence on the table. Jiro and Ichiro reread it together- or for the first time, since, again, they weren't actually a part of this investigation.
"-I've come to the conclusion that these mules are hand-selected by someone. Many of the individuals we've taken in- when we can formulate their backgrounds- have had some run-in with the law. Previous drug issues, violence, the like. That doesn't explain why Eraser Head was chosen, but given our involvement in taking down Azakuku's mules, maybe they somehow connected the dots."
It seemed unlikely, though. I bit my lip, considered saying more about Rozu and Sara's connection.
But I've never said his name, never even mentioned I'm in a relationship. There's no way.
"...At the last confrontation, we learned of Azakuku's little team; the Graces, as the mule leader said, with Fidelity being the person who put the transporters into contact with the Cure. I...I believe this person, Fidelity, to be Rozu Nishin."
"Which you believe because the address given led to a residency in her name," Toro reaffirmed. Logic tapped on my vocal chords, even as my heart tried to throw a tarp down over them.
"It's not the only reason."
Full attention. I tried not to be bothered- especially considering the tidbit I'd now have to share to a table of men.
"Over the past few weeks, I've become very close to Rozu and another woman. Recently, Rozu tried to...I can't quite explain it. One moment I was in complete control, the next I found my face inches from hers, in a more intimate position than I would have ever chosen myself."
"What?" Jiro, Ichiro, and Shota all voiced together. So I looked at Toro, the only one who seemed exclusively interested in the implications, rather than the physical action itself.
"You think she used some sort of mental quirk on you?"
"But maybe it isn't mental; maybe it's...I don't know, a pheromone. Something she can spread, or-"
"Produce." Toro leaned back on his heels, looking thoughtful. "And you think she- Rozu- you think she's Azakuku's significant other?"
"She's said before she's in a relationship with a troublesome man- and I don't mean that in the leaves-the-toilet-seat-up endearing kind of troublesome, either."
"You confirmed her whereabouts for Saturday?"
"She said she's working."
Toro chuckled- a truly haunting, slithery sound out of his throat, like an eel poking out to catch an angelfish in an electric embrace. "Ominous word choice."
"If Azakuku is using Rozu- and we're fairly confident he is-" Shota looked at me and I nodded a little too excitedly, just glad he wasn't dwelling on the almost-kiss I shared with someone not holding an affinity for sleeping bags and cats, "-then Rozu won't be held accountable for the actions of Azakuku. Correct?"
"If she's willing to testify against him, strip clean the procedures and methods, she'll be considered a prime witness and thus protected by the government," Toro explained. My shoulders released a heavy load of pent-up stress in response. Ichiro nudged Jiro with a smirk when dark eyes glanced my way, the ghost of a smile turning dour upon their attention. I wiped at my nose, moved out of the way just as Jiro's tepid coffee spilled into his lap. The ghost had returned to haunt new grounds, it seemed.
"You don't believe your other friend is involved?" Shota asked.
"I don't believe she's known Rozu that long, but...Sara isn't from here," I snapped to attention, wide eyes on Shota's patiently waiting face. "Her accent- I've known, but- Asking seemed impolite, since, er-" No one knows where I met these women. "Do you think she's how Azakuku's found a way into America? For drug pushing, I mean?"
"What does Sara do?"
"She was- is?- a psychiatrist," I said, a little deflated. The likelihood of a psychiatrist being the key into the garden of a new cartel seemed as likely as Kaminari winning the UA Sports Festival. "She's on a sort of...Sabbatical."
"Still, it wouldn't hurt to bring her in for questioning," Toro rubbed his chin. The damp-paper flesh gave a low, soft squelch with every movement. I stamped out my discomfort along with my foot.
"Absolutely not. We still aren't sure Rozu's even is involved; I won't permit another friend to be put through a ringer on- what did you call it? Hearsay?"
Toro sighed. As if I were the most difficult person in the room. "Very well. Shall we move on to contingencies?"
Ichiro and Jiro hung off our words like kids watching a spy movie until a discussion concerning code of conduct broke out. Soon enough their eyes were glazed, every cup of coffee was drained, and we had an iron-tight plan for the following evening.
Toro bled into the shadows like a bottle of spilled ink and then there was only Shota and me, with two overgrown children drooling on each other as they slept slouched against the table.
"Can we just...leave them?" Shota asked, hopeful.
My expression was enough to make him sulk.
"So," I began, because there would probably never be a better moment to breach the subject I'd mostly been thinking about this entire time, "The ring's, er- I have it here, on a necklace. Well, I mean, on a chain- not a chain, but-" I dropped Jiro in my blabbering embarrassment. His forehead made a happy little smack against the concrete.
We both watched in mild panic as he lazed across the ground before a loud snore muffled out, still blissfully asleep. Wow.
I smothered my face under one hand. "I just didn't want them to see and make a big deal. Kug- Gang Orca knows, but I made it abundantly clear our relationship was under wraps. Toro doesn't know, and these two clowns-" I prodded Jiro with the toe of my shoe. His snoring hitched, then returned to a pleasant drone. "-are pulling at straws."
I threw a blanket over the Hopper brothers when Shota dropped Ichiro next to Jiro, both laying on their sides and having never so much as stuttered in their slumber. At least this is better than leaving them at the table. The rug probably felt a little scratchy, but surely beat a sore back from a wooden chair tomorrow. Shota watched the brothers and I watched him from the corner of my eyes, wondering what thoughts roamed in that dark head of his. He hadn't interrupted; did he agree? Was he offended? Should I apologize for yesterday?
"I just thought, considering their personalities, Ichiro and Jiro might make a bigger deal out of it than they already do. I- I know the ring is just a part of my disguise, to make me harder to identify. No need to confuse the already-confused. Right?"
Like I had been.
"Yeah," He finally said after a pause. My heart gave a little hiccup when he turned to me, face a map written in a language I didn't recognize. I looked closer, as if doing so would help, tried to glean sights I recognized. Just as I figured out the roads, assessed the compass, a bend in his lips changed the whole route and I was lost once again.
"You've got a dress. I also see your nails look different."
Look different. Males were such interesting creatures.
Why did it feel like, I wondered, that this wasn't the original observation he wanted to express?
I bit back a smile when he took my hand- the ringless, injured hand, held it as if the worthiness of delicacy extended past just the stitch between my fingers, gently rubbing senseless patterns into my palm.
"Sara and Rozu did them."
"They look nice."
"Thanks. Do you- Are you all ready for tomorrow?"
"Are you?" The question was posed softly, rather than a defensive deflection.
"I don't know," I admitted, more honest than I'd been all night.
Because what if Rozu really loved Jamon? The way she'd spoken about him before, like a wounded puppy confused where and when her behavior had led her into this lonely landscape. How could someone like me- an undercover agent who'd mixed her professional life with one too personal into a solution of regretful deceit- convince her to put trust in me instead?
Shota pressed a kiss to the back of my hand, then its palm to his chest. A heart pattered quietly behind flesh and bone.
"We'll save Rozu. And, if there's time, maybe even try to do all the cliche antics of a prom night, minus the acne and chaperones."
A grin turned my face lopsided. He smiled back, landing on the side of boyish.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
My phone broke out into song.
If only I'd chosen some sweet, folk ballad as Sakamata's ringtone, rather than the Jaws theme song.
"Until tomorrow," Shota farewelled, hiding a smirk behind my hand. I felt his stupid lips curl just the slightest bit more against my skin as I flushed, ever the timid little mouse.
Even if tomorrow went totally bat-shit crazy wrong, at least I would die having seen Shota Aizawa in a tuxedo.