Chapter The Second
Amon summoned the core group and waited for the operatives to gather in the control room. For once, Doujima was early, and as she flounced into a seat across the table, Amon was gripped by an unfamiliar twinge of nostalgia. Looking around the table, he could almost see the rest of his comrades… but of course they were still oblivious and Unaware, most likely continuing on under a new executive director. He wondered who had been promoted to fill Zaizen's position, and who was leading the team in his absence, and if Solomon had filled the other vacancies now that his partner and Doujima were gone. Like the rest of the Society's operatives, he was prohibited from making contact with his home world, but he had learned – as had many other homesick SPCFC operatives – that Doujima was not above bribery. She wouldn't tell him everything he asked; either her snooping skills had limits, or (more likely) she wasn't willing to risk giving him too much information. Doujima had reassured him, at least, about Touko; after the emotional breakdown, she had been retrieved by the Society and relocated to a peaceful, pseudomedieval world where she was happily married and raising a baby boy. Amon was glad that she was happy, but the thought of Touko with a child made his stomach wrench.
Priss came to the table, stirring sugar into a mug of black sludge. Amon sighed. What he wouldn't give for a cup of coffee from Harry's right now. Master made coffee like no one else could…
The rest of the crew trailed in, looking drained, as Noin had told him to expect. Most, like Priss, carried their dose of energy in thick mugs bearing the SPCFC logo; a few had café latte or espresso in paper cups. He would have to choose his personnel carefully; tired operatives made mistakes, and this case was delicate.
He glanced at the faces around the table. Priss looked tired, but alert. Mireille seemed fairly fresh; according to the week's reports, she hadn't done anything active in the past few days. Yorick was dangling his lips in his coffee, not quite awake. Doujima had propped her chin on one hand, and seemed to be drifting between daydreaming and dozing; after the matter with the doujinshi circle, she could probably use the day off. Black's seat was empty; apparently he was still on hiatus. Amon made a mental note to ask Steed how long he would be gone. Alfred, used to long hours and short nights, was not only impeccably dressed in his claret-colored coat and breeches, but seemed completely awake. He was also, Amon noted, the only one to arrive without coffee. That was a good sign.
Wendy trotted in and took her place at the end of the table, pen poised over her steno pad. Even she carried a steaming cup of black tea in one hand; it seemed that caffeine was in high demand in every department. Amon raised his hand for attention and began the briefing.
"This case is a little more complex than your usual assignments," he said. "It will require precision work, and a very delicate retrieval with as little interference as possible. We have a major character who needs to be retrieved from a precarious environment. His home world was one of the better-constructed specimens, so we didn't foresee any problems with it. When the story closed, he was terminated by the creator; however, a second world was constructed that paralleled the first, with the purpose of filling in empty spaces in the original. The character was resurrected, but he is now trapped in limbo between the two worlds in an unstable Möbius storyline."
"Sounds like another case of prequel syndrome. Why is this one so delicate?" Doujima asked, opening one eye to glance at Amon.
Amon glanced down at the file before him, frowning. "It's not so simple as that. The coincidence of the two worlds has created an ephemeron. The character in question, as well as a few of his comrades from the home story, are suspended in this third world. It's extremely unstable, and it revolves around the personality we are targeting. Fortunately, he is a strong character, and thus far has managed to support the matrix by strength of will alone. Still, the entire world might cease to exist at any time, and we must terminate all passages into that matrix as soon as we remove him."
Several of the operatives blinked at him, uncomprehending. "Can you explain that again, in smaller words?" one asked.
Priss scooped up a stack of file folders and began distributing them. "It means that two worlds collided and made a bubble that wasn't supposed to exist. This guy is in the bubble, keeping it in one piece, but the bubble might pop at any time. As soon as we pull him out, it's our job to pop the bubble so nobody else gets stuck in it. Got it?"
There were nods around the table, and the quiet chatter was replaced with the rustling of papers as each operative flipped through the files. Amon gave them a moment to look over the case information before choosing his agents. He would ask for volunteers, as usual, but he knew that Yorick and Doujima were far too exhausted to be trusted under this kind of pressure. Priss almost never left headquarters on assignment, but in a special case he might be able to persuade her to assist the mission. That left only Alfred and—
"Let me do it," a feminine voice demanded, interrupting his thoughts. Mireille leaned over the table, half-raised from her seat. Her face was paler than usual, but her eyes burned with determination and… something else.
Amon's frown deepened; he had hoped to avoid this confrontation. "No. You're too emotionally involved in this matter, and this case is too sensitive to—"
Mireille pushed herself up from the table, her jaw clenched. "I'm not too involved to carry out orders. I can handle this assignment," she insisted, and her tone switched from argumentative to persuasive. "Besides, I'll have an advantage in this situation. I know this world, or at least I'm remembering it. And if he…" She faltered and tried again. "If the target doesn't believe us, or refuses to come with us, I'll have a better chance of convincing him."
Before Amon could answer, Doujima jumped in. "Mireille has a point," she said. "She might have an advantage, even if it's just that she's awake and the rest of us are done in. Who else would you send? We're awfully short-staffed right now," she added, trying to hide a yawn behind her loose blonde hair.
There was a moment of silence while Amon considered this. Another voice rose from the far end of the table. "If my service would be accepted," Alfred interjected, "I'd gladly accompany the lady on this errand. I don't think any one among us should attempt such a dangerous venture alone."
Amon looked hard at him, and at Mireille, and finally sighed in defeat. "I don't seem to have any other options," he conceded. "Time is short, so don't worry about arranging with Wardrobe for this one. Both of you, meet me at Transport in ten minutes for your instructions."
Mireille cast a grateful glance at Alfred, who sent her a smile and a courteous half-bow in return. She would have thanked Yurika as well, but it seemed the other blonde had finally dozed off on the table. Mireille escaped to the hallway and caught her breath before looking again at the file in her hands. It had been such a shock to her, seeing that face…
She found an empty seat in the rotunda and opened the file again, bracing herself for the flood of half-memory that assailed her whenever she looked at him. His face gazed blankly at her from the photograph, the mismatched eyes warm beneath the cool green-black of his perpetually tousled hair. It was, without a doubt, the same man who haunted her dreams – only now she had a name to attach to the face that drifted in her memories.
Spike Spiegel.
The second Director had explained to her, when she arrived, why she couldn't resume a normal life in another world. She had been pulled out of her own world when the creator had terminated her; her memory had been wiped, and she had been placed in another story. However, her memory wipe had not been perfect, and consequently she was haunted by flashbacks from her previous life. The SPCFC had realized this and retrieved her as soon as possible. By that time, it was too late to clear her memory again, and she had stayed on as an operative – a life she didn't mind, even if it wasn't her ideal climate.
But Noin hadn't given her specifics about her past – the only name she could remember was Mireille Bouquet, her latest identity. Who or what had she been before? Seeing Spike's face in the file had bridged some of the gaps in her memory, and for a moment in the control room she had been drenched in images from her previous life: A dimly-lit pool hall. A grey street corner. Cigarette smoke. And always, always the man called Spike Spiegel. His face, swathed in bandages, whispering… His face, sharing her pillow… His face, obscured by smoke and muzzle flash… His face, leaning over hers, telling her it was all just a dream…
Mireille slammed the folder shut again as the memories threatened to smother her. It was all so incoherent, so disjointed. She tried to remember her childhood, her profession, her name, anything that didn't involve Spike's face – but it was clear that he was the key to everything. She had to find him before she could find the answers. For that she had to be involved in this case, and she had faced off with the Director to manage it. Still, had it not been for Yurika and Alfred's intervention, Amon would never have let her do it…
Mireille glanced at her watch – seven minutes remaining – and hurried to prepare for the mission. She would probably need a weapon, if her instincts were true; her own Walther was freshly cleaned and waiting for action in her locker. And it might be smart to make a quick clothing change, despite Amon's warning about speed. She jogged to Wardrobe, skimmed the racks and shimmied into a black jumpsuit that caught her eye. Not her customary style, perhaps, but for some reason it seemed prudent to wear something more covering than her usual miniskirt.
She arrived at the Transportal hall with less than a minute remaining, and pushed through the milling crowds of samurai and space aliens to reach the door where they were to meet. She dodged milling teams of security men in nondescript blue suits and sunglasses, and more than once she consciously arrested the movement as her hand reflexively jerked toward her gun. Her past life had taught her not to trust anyone in a nondescript business suit. Particularly blue suits. And especially wearing sunglasses. In her private revenge, she snagged a pair of black wraparounds from a passing guard and pushed them into her own hair, making an effective headband behind her bangs. It never hurt to be prepared.
Alfred was already waiting at the door, resplendent in his usual elegant wardrobe. He wore a coat of wine-colored velvet, soft doeskin breeches and leather boots that came above the knee. There was a bunch of lace at his chin, and he carried a French plumed hat under one arm. He was armed with a pair of pistols and a rapier, polished to twinkling. All in all, he cut quite a dashing figure. Mireille eyed the lace jabot and wondered, wistfully, if the style would ever come back into fashion.
Amon joined them then and gave them precise instructions. They were to make contact with the target, but avoid influencing the world in any way that was not absolutely necessary.
"In other words – don't touch anything," Mireille murmured, smiling.
Amon nodded. "This world's matrix is unstable enough without bringing in outside forces," he said. "Even the slightest alteration – talking to the wrong person, opening the wrong door – could alter the calibration. It might delay your return, or at worst, cause the entire world to implode, taking you and our target with it. Don't risk any unnecessary contact. And once you have him in custody, make sure you return immediately to the portal; the matrix will begin to disintegrate the moment he becomes Aware, and if you don't move quickly, you may not be able to return."
They nodded gravely, confirmed their orders, checked their weapons – and stepped through the door.