Chapter 4: Acme Education

"It's a job."

Kirika set down her copy of Chicken Soup for the Amnesic Soul and moved over to her partner, by the computer, as usual.

"Chiyo Mihama," she read aloud. "She's so young..."

"Officially ten years old," replied Mireille, "although with the analytical abilities of someone thrice her age. The CIA suspects genetic engineering; Mossad claims cybernetic enhancement. Whatever the case, she's easily the top student at the Oishiinezumi Institute of Learning."

"'Tasty Rat'?" asked Kirika, after translating it in her head.

"Don't ask me; it's your culture."

"But, she's just a girl. Why would anyone want to hurt her?"

"Have you ever heard of this school, Kirika?" She shook her head. "Didn't think so. Although it was in the same neighbourhood as the one you were registered in, oddly enough." She leafed through a pile of printouts and passed her a pamphlet. "Their curriculum."

She read it. "English, Math, Physical Education, Military History, Strategic Weapons and Assault...oh."

"The most advanced and prestigious training centre for para-legal operatives in the Pacific Rim," said her partner. "And a direct rival to L'École du Coups Puissant, which I attended," she added, parenthetically. "Up until that unfortunate incident with the yak, anyway." She cleared her throat. "The future leaders of the underworld learn their trade there, as do a great number of non criminally inclined students whose parents liked the facilities. Our client is a student there, actually."

"But...she's just a child," said Kirika. "I mean..."

"I know. That's why I did some checking." She plucked a folder from the pile by the monitor. "Interpol has issued a global warrant for her arrest on charges of Egregious and Excessive Adorability (that's their code-word for grand-theft nuclear submarine, I found out). The Japanese Self-Defence Force once fingered her for possible involvement in the 2007 Godzilla Encounter, but dropped the case, citing lack of living witnesses. In her spare time, she works at the local soup kitchen, advises the Hong Kong Triads on money laundering and RRSP contributions, and walks a very large dog, who, incidentally, urinates on public fire hydrants." She tossed the folder aside, and settled back. "One thing you learn very quickly in this business, Kirika, is that there is no such thing as an innocent bystander."

"I understand that," said the young one, "but, is this really our kind of job? I mean, it says on the website..." She pointed to a window running Mozilla on the monitor. The words "No kids, please!" were clearly written next to a gaudy animated GIF flashing "Ask About Our Two For One Special!"

"Ordinarily, I would agree. But in this case," said Mireille, scrolling down in the email to the "Payment" section, "I think we can make an exception."

Kirika read the number. It took some time. "That...that...that's a very...big...number..."

"Yup. And you just bought all of Ranma 1/2 on DVD."

"But Mousse san is so adorable..." she whispered, sheepishly. "Can we trust the client?" she asked.

"A. Kasuga is one of the most wealthy and influential figures in the Osakan crime syndicate. And if you can't trust the yakuza," said Mireille, with an impish grin, "who can you trust?"

A few seconds passed.

"Well...there's the --"

"Rhetorical question, Kirika."

"Oh."

XXXXxxxxxxxxxxx.....

It was a sunny, spring day in Japan. The birds were singing, the rats were copulating, and 678 criminal-masterminds-to-be were on lunch-break, chatting and playing in the exercise yard.

"School..." whispered Kirika.

"Kirika?" buzzed a voice in her ear. "Kiiiirika?"

She exhaled, her eyes glazing over noticeably.

A nearby bush disgorged an angry Corsican in camouflage gear (by Calvin Klein). "Kirika!" she hissed, snapping her fingers in front of her partner's face. "Snap out of it!"

"Eh? Wha?"

"Better."

"Mireille? Why were you using the headset if you were so close?" she asked, meaning the wireless earpiece.

"Field test. Never mind." She motioned her partner to crouch lower, as two kindergarten students playing "Robbers and Robbers" scampered by their position. "Now, Mihama and her cohorts are over on the far side of the yard." She handed a small bottle to her partner. "This contact poison will kill without warning in thirty minutes. Our client wants her to perish publicly and inexplicably. You know the route?"

Her partner nodded.

"And I see you've already changed into your disguise," noted Mireille. "Any problems with it?"

She examined the classic school uniform. Running, shooting, fear, blood, murder, death, kill --

"No, I'm good."

"Great. I'll watch your back through the windows. If I see anything, I'll let you know over the wireless." Kirika nodded. "Remember the escape plan. Good luck." The blonde vanished into a shrubbery.

She popped a stick of gum in her mouth, then crossed the yard at a measured pace, pausing briefly to discourage a crowd of angst-ridden teenagers whom thought they'd found a kindred spirit. As she reached for the door, a young nerd with glasses propositioned her for a Yearbook Club photo. Dispatching him with a look, she left him babbling incoherently, and stepped inside.

Immediately, she hit the ground, rolled, and flattened herself against the opposite wall. Cameras, she thought. Lots of them, she noted. She remembered reading about the CEO of Nikon being one of the school's corporate sponsors.

"The cameras on the first floor are remote-monitored," her partner buzzed in her ear. "Use the countermeasures."

She tossed the October issue of Hawt Anime Babes Monthly down the corridor, making sure it landed centrefold-up. Seven cameras snapped towards it, and then zoomed in considerably. Kirika, thankfully ignorant of the situation's Freudian aspects, rolled and ran up the stairs, silent as the winds of death. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated, placed the gum in her mouth on a 3x4" glossy of Aya Hisakawa in a pop-star outfit, then stuck the picture in front of the camera lens directly above her. She swept by the row of open windows, (ignoring the moans of "Ah! Hisakawa sama!" coming from the nearby Security room) and staying close to the lockers.

"Two teachers up ahead, around the corner," buzzed the voice in her ear. "Coming your way."

She rocketed skyward. Swiftly, she dislodged a ventilation grille, pulled herself up, replaced it, and waited. Two women, one visibly drunk, the other visibly embarrassed, came into view.

"Honestly, Yukari," said the latter, "couldn't you have waited? You've got three more classes today!"

"That, Professor," slurred the former, "would be a unacceptibliminal violation of my prinshlip -- plinshilp -- ethics."

"Drunken skank," muttered the latter.

"Stuck up bourgeoisie," the former replied.

"What?!"

A catfight broke out. After a cursory nod to the other ninja assassin hiding in the duct, Kirika slid out, ran along the wall, and flipped and rolled into a classroom.

"Should be the first desk in the centre row," buzzed her partner. "Next class starts in three minutes; hurry." Swiftly, she stepped up to the desk, and pulled on some velvet gloves. She peeked in the desk, spotted the book, and --

"Hello!"

Kirika started. An orange-haired, pig-tailed munchkin with eyes half the size of her head (a bit small for her age, in other words) smiled at her from the doorway. "My name is Chiyo!" she squeaked. "What's yours?"

And as she looked upon that face, that horrible, hideously cute face, with its sparkling eyes and bubbling optimism, and its waggling, wobbling, almost living pig-tails, she realized that there were things beyond her world of death and subterfuge. Terrible things. Things Yuumura kind Was Not Meant to Know. Things so alien, so other, that the human mind staggered at the mere hint of their existence, before it fell headlong into the swirling hells of insanity. And that these things were here, on Earth, in this very room.

And they wore sailor fuku.

"You're cover's blown!" screamed a voice in her ear. "Evac! Evac NOW!"

Some part of her tore itself away from terror's titanic grip and cast a smoke bomb on the ground. Swiftly, while the fiend in human shape was blinded, she hurled a chair through a nearby window, ran, and leapt. Glass spiralled through the air.

She landed on someone, bounced off, and rolled for cover. "This is the police!" said a familiar voice over a megaphone. "You are all under arrest on charges of First Degree..." Someone fumbled audibly with a piece of paper. "Enn joh Koh sai," said the voice, in terrible Japanese. "Surrender!"

"Never!" shouted the girl she'd landed on. Sporadic gunfire (actually firecrackers, she knew) erupted from the trees.

The yard exploded. Students screamed, and shouted orders. Throwing knives, pistols, grenades, and (in the case of the girl she'd landed on) two assault rifles leapt from secret pockets and stashes. Shrapnel and bullets flew. The ground shook. Smoke and blood drifted on the air. Swiftly, she sprinted for the trees. As she rolled for cover, she caught a brief glimpse of that girl she landed on shooting wildly into the air, cackling, while another, taller one, with glasses, tried to restrain her.

Don't stop, don't stop, she thought. Don't look, don't think, just run! Branches whipped at her face. She leapt, cleared the fence, dodged the razor wire, slid down the embankment...

A car screeched to a halt before her. "Get in!" shouted the driver. She dove through the rear passenger window, using her hands to stop herself from smashing into the opposite doors. "Hang on!" Tires squealed. Acceleration bounced her back into the seat. Inertia flung her about. Finally, she managed to cling to the back of the driver's seat, just as the vehicle took a corner on two wheels.

Then, at last, there was peace, save for the tortured whine of the Honda Civic's motor and the wind whipping by at thrice the speed limit. Calm, she thought. Good. Now, to keep my heart from exploding...

As she slowed her pulse rate to something less than the speed of fright, she realized her partner was talking.

"...amn, damn damn!" she cursed under her breath. "Stupid, just stupid..."

"Mireille, I'm sorry, I --"

"No, not you, me." She thumped the wheel, a dangerous move at 135 km/h. After she got the car back under control, she slowed to something approaching legal speed. "It was my fault. I planned this out. I should've known she'd be a keener..." She stopped for a red light (for the first time in 12 blocks). "Did she see you?"

"I...I don't know, I was, was hiding under the desk..."

"Hiding?"

"You weren't there," shuddered Kirika. "You didn't see those eyes. Those horrible, terrible, doe-like eyes!" She sobbed.

Mireille looked at her strangely. "Um, there, there?" She gave her a few hesitant pats on the shoulder.

"Is that it then?" asked Kirika, when they started moving again. "Did we fail?"

"Not yet," replied her partner. "We've got one more chance. It's risky, but we've a contract to fulfill." She looked back at her passenger, and saw the strain in her face. "I...think I can handle it alone."

"No. I'll help."

"All right, if you insist. But this time, you'll be the backup; I don't think you're ready for another run just yet." She looked back, concerned. "You look like a wreck. Are you sure...?"

"I'm fine," she whispered. Just give me some time to file this away with all my other repressed traumas, she added, mentally.

Mireille raised an eyebrow, remembered something, and just barely dodged a lamppost.

XXXXxxxxxxxxxxx.....

"According to our client," said the voice over the earpiece, "the target walks this way every day after class. She has two escorts. The first is a dog, French lineage. Big, white fur, likes liver. I'll take it down."

"The other?" Kirika whispered into her lapel mike.

"Sakaki O'Ren Ishii. Alias The Silent Giant. Master assassin and leader of the Seven Sisters of Sekhmet. And subscriber to Neko-Neko-Wai-Wai Magazine. That's where you come in."

"Is this necessary?" she whispered, leaning against the wall. "It seems so...cruel..."

Dead silence. "Kirika..."

"Mm?"

"Do you actually remember what you did to those poor men in Singapore?"

"That was self-defence. This, this is just...wrong..."

"There's no right and wrong in this business, Kirika; just us and the dead." There was a rustle over the earpiece. "I see them. Get ready."

She could hear them. Or rather her. It. She could hear that squeaky-clean, pure-as-fallen-snow voice chattering away about flowers and kitty-cats and how to kill a man at twenty paces using a toy yak. She shuddered in recognition. The package squirmed in her hands.

"There're in range," said the voice. "Release the distraction."

She looked at the thing in her hands. "But..."

"Now, Kirka!"

She flung the kitten over the wall. It yowled noisy. Suddenly, she felt depressed.

"Ishii's taken the bait." She heard steps running around the corner after the airborne kitty, as that hideous voice chattered on. "I have a shot."

A click, followed by a nearly inaudible thunk.

"Eh?! Mr. Tadakichi? Aa!" A thud, as if a large animal had slumped on its side. "Uff! Mr. Tadakichi? Wake up! Get off me, please?"

"Going in," buzzed the voice in her ear.

A rustle of leaves. Two high-heels clicked on the pavement. A safety catch clicked. A young girl gasped, then whimpered.

Kirika closed her eyes tight, and waited for the inevitable.

It was late.

She opened one eye, and then the other. No click of a hammer? No screams? No dramatic tinkle of fallen shell cartridge? She sniffed the air. No gunpowder? And when she listened in, she swore she could hear two sets of lungs breathing.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Mireille!" She was over the wall in one swing, weapon ready.

Her partner was seated on the curb. She appeared vexed. Swiftly, averting her gaze from the Thing on the walk, she ran to her side. "Mireille? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"(Unintelligible mumblings)," she replied.

"'(Unintelligible mumblings)'? I don't understand."

"I said, 'I can't do it,' okay?" said Mireille, in obvious irritation. She gestured at the heap of flesh nearby. "She's too damn cute," she added, ashamed.

Kirika turned to look. Too late, she realized her mistake. Terror's titanium claws ripped open her chest, seized her heart, and squeezed.

Before her, was...It.

It, with its grotesque body, that gestalt fusion of Fenrir and Eve. It, with its eight twisted limbs: four with claws, hooked and stained with the blood of the Earth, two with great, black hammers, to pummel it, and two with five tremulous tendrils apiece, to whip and burrow through it. It, with its twinned heads: one shock white, lupine, with razor teeth and a serpent tongue, blood red, oozing from its sole orifice; the other pale, with two wriggling horns of orange flame, and eyes. Those eyes, like those of the great creatures that dwell in the darkest valleys of the ocean, those eyes that were not eyes at all, but rippling, trembling portals to a world where Things craving the light and warmth of this world, this all too naïve, defenceless world, watched, waited...and hungered.

And just as the council of thought that the world knew as Kirika Yuumura was about to collapse into a gibbering panic, the low-ranking, oft-ignored Secretary (known to some as Rational Thought) thrust itself through the maddened crowd and slapped Chairperson Kirika in the face.

She blinked. And looked again.

Before her was a large, well-bred dog with a glossy white coat. A Great Pirenees, to be exact, although her Soldat indoctrination was curiously lax when it came to cynology. There was a tranquilizer dart sticking out of its neck. It was sprawled in an undignified fashion on a small, relentlessly cute girl that was, for lack of a better word, wibbling.

"Um, a-are you, going to...kill...me?" squeaked the child.

"Are we?" Kirika asked of her partner.

"I can't," sighed Mireille. "You do it, Kirika."

"What? Me? B-but don't we need some sort of complicated ritual recited by three Miskatonic professors to make her vulnerable first?" she babbled.

Mireille gave her a look. "Did you land on your head or something when you jumped out that window?"

"Um...no?"

"Then just shoot her already!"

Kirika aimed, whimpered, and nearly fainted. Suddenly, her partner felt embarrassed.

"Well, one of us has to do it," said Mireille. "Tell you what; you shoot her in the chest, and I'll go for the head. 50/50, okay?"

"(Whimper)," she replied. Mireille felt a migraine coming on. The little girl raised a hesitant hand.

"Um, excuse me?" she said. "Is there some kind of problem, here?"

Mireille sighed. "Might as well tell you...we'll be lucky to get out of this with severance pay as is. We're assassins, hired to kill you. But you're so...disturbingly cute...that you've apparently driven my partner into a catatonic state, and, well, that kind of puts a damper on my killer instinct, too. But we made a deal: one target, one payment, half now, half on the completion of the job. And you always, always finish the job. Life's cheap, but trust isn't. Break a deal, break a promise, and you'll never pay off the debt. I've never, we've never, broken a contract yet. But I guess there's a first time for everything," she sighed. "If Human Resources Weekly gets wind of this..."

"How much money are we talking about, here?" asked the kid, speculatively.

Mireille named the figure. The kid looked thoughtful.

"Will you take a cheque?" She smiled, forming darling little rosy dimples on either cheek and transforming her eyes into upside-down U's.

Kirika fainted.

XXXXxxxxxxxxxxx.....

She awoke in the back seat of a car. Someone was humming La Marseillaise. A blonde somebody.

"Mireille?" she said muzzily. "Wha happen?"

Still humming, her partner passed her a very long piece of paper from the driver's seat. She read it.

"That...that...that's a very...very...big number," she said.

"Of course, it doesn't happen very often," said Mireille, more or less to herself, "but there are precedents. Jimmy "Not the Super Fly" Snooker did it in '78. Rodrigo "Just Rodrigo" Montoya held off an entire armed division in the same way as recent as 2003."

"Who wrote this che -- Mihama Chiyo?!"

"Well, the file did say she came from a rich family," said Mireille. "And there's the assassin's motto: nil mortifice sine lucre. Kind of obvious to invert it, really; don't know what came over me."

"She...who...how...what?"

"She offered us twice the worth of the contract, plus travel and surveillance expenses, in exchange for her life and the name of the client. A good deal all around."

She was, for quite likely the first time in her young life, completely flabbergasted. "B b but what about 'trust'? What about 'break a deal, break a promise'?"

"Oh, Kirika," replied her partner, with a soft chuckle, "you're forgetting the first rule of our profession."

"'Leave No Witnesses'?" guessed Kirika.

"Uh, no."

"'One Shot, One Kill'?"

"Err, no..."

"'Take Only Lives, Leave Only Corpses, Because Only You Can Prevent High-Speed Police Chases'?"

"What? No! It's, 'Don't Expect to Live if You're Stupid'!"

Kirika pondered the wisdom of this maxim. "Um, I don't think I've heard that one before."

Mireille shook her head in disgust. "As soon as we find out who it was that trained you," she said, "I'm going to give them a stern talking to about the importance of teaching the fundamentals!"

"So, this justifies our being bribed how?"

"Our client contacted us directly, and used her real name. Heck, she even used her personal email account. And she didn't make the industry-standard 'No Stab-Backs' insurance deposit. She was practically crying out to be double-crossed!"

"Um, won't the client go and make life a living hell for us now?"

"Nope. Mihama said she was looking for an excuse to go after her, and said this was it. Mentioned something about trepanning..."

"And what about Cthul -- I mean, Miss Mihama?"

"Oh, I told her that if the cheque bounced or she ever came after us that some friends of mine would come by and set her on fire or something. And then she mentioned in passing that if I did we might get a squad of ninjas in the mail. So we called it even. Oh, except we have to send her a Christmas card with a fuzzy rabbit on it."

"So," said Kirika, as the tremendous moral implications of her situation began to sink in, "we broke into a high-school, staged a terrorist incident, tossed a kitten, knowingly committed our own employer to impromptu amateur brain surgery, threatened our new client with immolation...and we get paid double?"

Mireille nodded, still humming.

"Mireille?" asked the young one.

"Yeah?" replied the old(er) one.

"Does this qualify as Pure, Unadulterated, Absolute Evil, or have we passed beyond all mortal concepts of right and wrong?"

Mireille patted her on the head. "Ah, so cute you are when you're moralizing. Victory saké?" She proffered a large (half-empty) bottle.

"Please."

stay the hard way

dark dreaming carries all