Three: Irony

"Waiting, are they? Waiting, are they? Well... let 'em wait!"

- Ethan Allen, U.S. Patriot during the American Revolution, being told that angels were waiting for him. (1738-1789), last words

Karen watched as they closed the curtains. It was hard to let them do that, so unknowing as they took her view away from her, but Karen was a mature enough woman to know it was only right. He was their patient; his wife was with him. Closing the curtains only afforded them some of the privacy they deserved, and she was not about to complain - even though this action completely closed off her view. She was fine with it; she was okay.

But she dearly wished that they hadn't closed the curtains.

Sighing in a tired sort of release, Karen stretched her legs and rose slowly from her seat on the edge of the apartment building. Her own vigil over Seiichirou had been unending last night, and nearly unending the night before; it would be unending still if she hadn't had to go back to work.

The irony was simply too much, wasn't it? The world was ending; but she still had to be a soapland girl. Pulling her coat securely around her lingerie-clad body, she leapt down the fire escape, her toes touching the rusted metal of each railing just enough to keep her from plummeting completely. When she landed, she hardly made a sound. It was nice being able to do things like that - very fun. There certainly wasn't any reason at this stage in life not to have a little fun.

No reason at all.

Karen closed her eyes. Not thinking about Seiichirou at all, she opened them again and marched down the alley and onto the sidewalk, pleased that her "lunch break" had ended on time for once, and that she could hold her head up high even in such dire circumstances.

A woman had to have something to be proud of, after all.

Nodding to the receptionist, she shed her coat in the employee's lobby and started back to her room.

"Kasumi-san," the receptionist called, and Karen came back to her.

"Yes, Iku?"

The woman nodded toward a closed door to her right - the opposite direction of the main room. "Special customer for you."

"Now?" Karen asked before she could stop herself; she'd returned from her break at least ten minutes early, and had been hoping she'd have some time to unwind.

"Now," Iku confirmed, nodding again. "In the tub."

Karen was a professional; she didn't make a face. "Ah. Showered, I assume?"

"Of course," Iku replied, since access to the sunken tub room was as regulated as it was pricey.

Karen sighed. "Very well. Thanks for the heads up." Abandoning her plans, she turned toward the room Iku had indicated and went inside.

A man was waiting there. Immersed to his chest in the twelve-foot long sunken tub, his head was back, relaxed, and she could not see his face. Folded towels lay around the tub; most of the lighting was from candles. More a small pool than a bath, both the tub and surrounding tiles lent a sense of subtle class to the intimate atmosphere.

Karen smiled. "Good afternoon," she bid the man, her work-face already on. "It's such a hot day outside, don't you think? So very sticky." Casually, she removed what remained of her lingerie, then moved lightly down the steps into the tub and slid through the water, sending ripples toward him.

The man lifted his head looked at her and watched with polite interest as Karen startled badly, gasped, stopped approaching, and covered her mouth as if she thought she were going to start screaming.

Utterly still, they regarded one another - he sitting, she kneeling. Patiently, he waited for her to say something; and eventually, she did.

"K... Kamui," she said in a voice just a little too high and a little too tense, and for a moment, fury passed over her features. She looked as though she were seriously thinking of attacking him. "You... how dare you come here!"

"One hundred thousand, five hundred yen," he replied obscurely, and Karen stared at him.

"Wh... what?"

Fuuma's tone never changed; he sounded almost compassionate. "One hundred thousand, five hundred yen," he repeated. "Or so they tell me you're worth." And then he waited.

She stared. "You don't actually believe that I'm going to touch you!"

He didn't even bother to shrug. "It's what you're paid to do."

"You... " She stopped herself. Nothing would have pleased her more than attacking him, hurting him, trying - even though it was impossible - to kill him for what he'd done. It seemed she could still feel Nataku's slender body going limp in her arms, and she shuddered hard as she struggled with self control.

The best case scenario would be if he simply left, but it was obvious he wasn't going to leave. Attack him, and he'd probably fight back; why wouldn't he? Which meant - if she initiated a fight, people would die. Not just her - anyone in this building and on this block was at risk.

"Damn you," she said quietly, under her breath, and Fuuma smiled sweetly.

"Wash me. It is a sticky day outside," he said, and with that, put his head back once more and closed his eyes.

Karen did not move.

"I'm waiting," he finally said without looking up, and there was just a hint of warning in his tone.

"Damn you," she said again, and snatching up one of the towels folded by the tub, began scrubbing his torso with enough gusto to turn his skin red. He let her do that for a moment; and then, he responded.

She never saw him move; when he grabbed her wrist, it was his speed more than the action itself which gave her the first stab of real fear.

"More like this," he instructed, showing her exactly what he wanted with absolutely nothing in his eyes; then, releasing her wrist, he lay his head back again and waited. Clenching her teeth, Karen silently complied.

Minutes passed; eventually, Karen found the strength to speak again.

"Why are you here?"

"I wanted a bath," Fuuma replied, and Karen clenched her teeth again.

"Tell me the truth."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "Are you sure you want it?"

A second stab of fear. "Yes."

Fuuma showed neither respect nor disgust for her decision or her tone; instead he simply stood, and without modesty sloshed to the side of the tub. "Then you're looking the wrong way."

Karen was suddenly sure . "What?"

Fuuma stopped. Looking pointedly like Michelangelo's David to the far side of the tub, he lifted one hand and descried a slightly darker shadow under the water in the deep shadows of the unlit side of the room. "There."

He continued climbing out. Suddenly knowing - knowing, somehow, the nature of the thing she would find, if not whom, Karen ignored him and trembled through the water toward the other end.

There was a body in the deep end of the tub.

Karen screamed.

The police, fortunately, were very familiar with the Flower soapland. This was hardly the first unexpected "departure" from within these sullied walls, and it wouldn't be the last; the department had made an art of arranging it so that deaths didn't "happen" inside the building at all. More than one politician, well-known schoolteacher, actor and chef had died from mysterious heart failure in restaurants nearby - at least, on the official reports - and because of this small courtesy, the Flower kept its reputation, and so did the victim.

This death, however, posed a problem. It was no accident; clearly a mutilation and homicide, this incident brought together an entirely different branch of law enforcement.

"Kusanagi, Shiyuu," said detective Yamata, reading from a card he'd crumpled slightly in his pocket. "JSDN. Although what the hell he's doing in here with his eye torn out is another question entirely."

Karen sat on a small chair near the counter; her lingerie donned once more, she wore someone else's coat over her body, and was currently feeling annoyed because her own coat had tissues in the pockets and this one didn't. Sniffling, she looked around for help.

Yamata handed her a handkerchief."So, last time," he said, looking away while she delicately wiped her nose; as if a red-head in black lace wasn't distracting enough. "You just... found him there."

"Yes. After my last customer left," she said firmly, handing the handkerchief back to him and looking steadily at his face.

He let her keep it, studying her instead . Eye contact was a good thing; TOO strong an eye contact, however, was not, because it meant she was hiding something.

The problem was, Yamata couldn't figure out just what. "And you don't know who the guy was."

"I don't know who my customers are as a general rule, detective," she replied in slightly frosty tone, as though he'd insulted her professionally.

Yamata sighed. "Any luck getting those records?" he asked his partner. That man, on the phone behind the receptionist's desk, looked at Yamata and shook his head no. Apparently, soapland records were considered highly private documents, and a court order was needed to access them.

"Hell," Yamata muttered running his hand through his hair; the red-head shifted in her seat.

"I don't mean to be rude, detective," she said carefully, "but this day has been absolutely horrible. May I please go home?"

He looked at her. Her record was squeaky clean - if one discounted working in a soapland - and he had no legal reason to hold her. "Yeah. You can go. Just don't try to visit any out-of-town relatives, okay?"

She gave him a dry look as though he were insulting her again, then nodded. "I won't go anywhere. In fact, Iku - ?"

Iku, who was on the other side of the room in a huddle with the other employees, looked up. "Yes?"

"I think I'm taking some vacation time."

"Oh honey, you've earned it!" Iku said, making a mental note to mark Karen off duty for a while. "Go home. Just... go home."

Karen smiled her thanks; then with a quick nod to Yamata - and still wearing whomever's coat it was she'd borrowed - she left.

Karen had reasons beside the obvious for taking a vacation now. She rarely took vacations; Karen had pride in herself and in her work, and saw no reason to avoid it if she had the health to do it. This, however, was different; all too well, she knew that if Fuuma for some reason decided to come back, he'd probably kill her, too.

As well as anyone else in the area.

She had no doubt of this. After she'd screamed, after there were shouts from outside and sounds of people running, he'd smiled at her, and she'd known. The next time they met, she would die at his hands.

Karen never once wondered how it was that Fuuma had dressed and left, taking his time, and yet no one had so much as noticed him. Even when people came streaming into the room, responding to her sounds of panic, no one seemed to see him; casually, calmly, he pushed his way between them all and walked out.

Karen had not known what to say.

Well; it hardly mattered now. She was not going back to work, and she was not allowed to leave town - although she wouldn't have, even if it still had been an option. Her part in the end of the world was too important.

Silently, unfaltering, she returned to her perch on the apartment building to watch Seiichirou's hospital room until the sun sank low in the sky.