Chapter 3: Two for the Price of One
A pair of pink shoes stepped onto the walk, followed by their closest companion. A soft voice gave thanks, and received a torrent of Gallic invective in exchange. The cab driver tore off at top speed, leaving the young woman choking on its exhaust.
Kirika Yuumura, Japanese exchange student (technically), master assassin (regrettably), and connoisseur of all things cute and cuddly (professionally), was home at last.
She trudged up the stairs to Mireille's apartment, waved to a pointless cameo known as Madame Trousseau, yawned, and fumbled for the keys. Pocket? No. Bag? Not. Novelty Kitty-Chan knapsack? Nope.
Through the haze of jet-lag, she recalled she'd left them back at the hotel in Japan. Imbedded in an overly-curious yakuza, if she remembered right. Nuts, she thought. That's the third set in three months. Oh well.
Yawning hugely, she considered her options. Window? Too public. Lockpick? She padded her pockets, recalled a second unfortunate yakuza in Hokkaido, and gave up. Force? No, new deadbolt, and she'd just had her nails done.
As her subconscious calculated seventy-eight different ways a professional assassin could bypass the lock (three of which did not involve bloodshed), the slightly more practical part of her personality turned her around, borrowed the keys from the neighbours, and unlocked the door.
"Mireille?" she called, softly. "I'm back." She yawned and stretched, dropping her bag and oversized souvenir UFO-catcher Ninja Kerokerokerokeropi doll ("Ninja Action! Lucky Seven Fight-O!"). "I got you some Women's Pocky, like you asked, and --"
Nostrils flared. Eyes widened. Muscles tensed.
Broken glass.
Scattered bullets.
Blood everywhere.
A body.
"Mireille!" she cried, as she rushed to the aid of her fallen friend. "Mireille, what -- wah!" Her pink, noticeably grip-less shoes had slipped on the puddle of V-8 tonic.
Instinct took over. Leg muscles, thin, yet strong as steel wire, turned the fall into a forward flip. Kirika made a perfect one-point landing on the pool table.
More specifically, she landed on the 8-ball.
Slightly surprised, she flailed for balance, kicking pool balls all over the table, and unintentionally performing a tricky three-bumper shot into the corner pocket.
A heel caught an edge, sending her off-balance. Years of Soldat-sponsored indoctrination lead to a hand plant, followed by a cartwheel. She smashed into the cue-rack. Batting aside the oncoming cues with one arm, the other snatched the table edge, while her left heel balanced precariously on a bottle of Pocari Sweat that had rolled out of her bag, and her right leg caught the falling plant, knocked from its pedestal by an errant pool cue.
At this point, conscious thought finally caught up events, and demanded to know what the hell was going on.
"Wagh!" Distracted, her finely-tuned instincts, already twanging from shock, fear, adrenaline, and a serious case of jet-lag, dropped the ball (meaning her) completely. The edge of the table cracked her on the back of the neck.
The room swirled. Stars filled her vision. The plant was falling, falling...
No!
Summoning every last ounce of training, she spun, kicked off the wall, slid, and snagged the pot one-handed millimetres before impact, stopping just short of the radiator.
She smiled the big, stupid grin of the mildly concussed.
Wobbling slightly, she placed Mr. Begonia-san-sensei-kohai-sama-chan (her language centre was a bit scrambled) back in his place of honour. Ah, what wonderful memories she had of that plant. Watering it. Turning it. Keeping it aligned with the Earth's magnetic field. Checking its leaves for rot...
What was she doing?
Oh. Right.
"Mireille!" She rolled over the table, landed unsteadily, tottered forward, and slipped in the V-8 again.
The room flipped.
Her legs said, "Flip!"
Her arms said, "Catch!"
Unfortunately, their immediate superior, Miss Yuumura, had caught an upside-down glimpse of Ninja Kerokerokerokeropi-chan ("Soopah Akchun! A Winner Is You!"), and she said, "Awww, kawa --"
Crack!
And as the fireworks exploded in her eyes, and the cold numbness of neural shock seized her extremities, the last conscious thought that Kirika Yuumura (World's Most Unlikely Accident Victim) had before the swirling vortex of oblivion claimed her, was this:
"I need better shoes."
Your dark mind cutting through
the deeping sky
another time
another time