Chapter 5: One Thousand Thousand Slimy Things

"You're in for an education this time." Mireille stopped for a red light. "This is not your typical contract."

"Mireille?" asked her sleep-deprived partner in the seat next to hers.

"Yeah?"

"Weren't we in Japan just now?" she yawned.

Mireille looked at her curiously. "Kirika, this is Japan. F-City. You know, in F-Province?"

"No, I mean, just now, when we went to that school, and..."

Concerned, she looked carefully at her jet-lagged partner. "Kirika, that was three months ago. Are you feeling all right?"

Kirika blinked at her with an expression of complete and utter befuddlement, then yawned hugely.

"You must have been dreaming," said Mireille.

Her partner nodded in agreement, slowly. "What's so special about this case?" she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"You read the dossier, correct?" said Mireille, as the light turned green.

"'Excel Excel,'" she recited, "'alias E-Chan, alias Etchan, alias Excel Kobayashi, alias Excel No-Not-Like-Access™, alias Bob the Builder. Orange hair, green eyes. 1.3 meters tall. 62 kilograms (78 with shoulder-pads). Top agent for the secret ideological organization/temp agency known as ACROSS. Wanted for crimes against humanity; she is considered to be the first person ever to be charged with being in violation of the Geneva Protocol through the simple fact of her existence. Enjoys walks on the beach, dogs, recreational discharge of firearms, dogs, eggs, haggis, Pokémon, dogs, long debates about the nature of the universe, kabuki, mass murder, macramé, collecting lint, and dogs. Was once bitten by a moose in --'"

"Okay, okay, that's enough. Sheesh, how do you remember all that stuff?"

"Um, haven't we been over that before?"

"Ah, right. 'If I knew that, then I could yadda yadda.' But there's one thing that wasn't in there. I know it wasn't, since I'm probably one of the only people who know about it."

"Know about what?"

"Our target? She's immortal."

Her partner looked at her strangely. "Are you feeling all right, Mireille?"

"It's true," she replied, turning a corner. "I don't know how or why, but she just can't die. If I hadn't seen it for myself I would never have believed it was possible. Heck, I still don't."

"Are you sure? I mean, you were mixing Mydol with vodka on the flight over..."

"Damn it, yes! I'm completely, utterly, sane, sober, and stable right now!" They drove on for a few blocks before turning into an isolated side-street, populated by a few bums, a pastor, and a hot dog vendor with no concept of 'location, location, location.' She parked the car in front of a non descript tobacco shop, and cut the engine. "She can, and has, died. But she doesn't stay dead. What's more, no one seems to notice."

"And not a little bit; two, three bottles, wasn't it?"

Mireille twitched, then sighed. "Look, just trust me on this, okay? You'll believe it when you see it." She squinted at something at the far end of the street. "And here's your chance, I think."

A young man had skidded around the corner, looking over his shoulder, scared out of his wits. He spotted the preacher, sprinted up to him, and threw himself at his knees, apparently begging for something. Although the car was soundproofed, Mireille, reading his lips, picked out the words "help," "sanctuary," "banshee," and (this is what confirmed her suspicions) "oh god oh god oh god please please please keep that horrible woman away from me." The pastor started to say something.

Simultaneously, the street's inhabitants pricked up their ears. Their faces fell, as one, as if hearing the sound of an oncoming train after having walked down a long dark tunnel for several minutes.

"Someone's coming," said Kirika. "Someone...singing?" Mireille shushed her, and bid her watch the street.

An orange haired woman with shoulder-pads that were continents unto themselves pranced around the corner. She was skipping, hopping, twirling, and, above all else, screaming her lungs out to the heavens above.

They heard the young man's scream even through the car's insulation. In a panic, he was trying to climb up one of the buildings whilst covering his ears with both hands. The hot-dog vendor, noticing the commotion, dived into his own stand, got stuck, and ended up upside-down, legs kicking at the air. The bums clutched each other and cried.

The pastor, trying to be brave, stepped forward and brandished a holy book in one trembling hand, fumbling for a vial of holy water with the other, as he shouted what Mireille recognized as the first few lines of a classic exorcism ritual. The woman spun, and accidentally kicked him in the crotch before unintentionally giving him a vicious elbow to the spine, followed by a spinning lariat that sent him into a nearby alleyway. Still singing, she spun and two-stepped her way down the street, clicking her heels, hanging off lampposts, and smashing people into walls. She cornered the troop of bums across the street from Mireille's car, and engaged them in casual conversation.

"Those poor men," breathed Kirika, upon seeing their expressions.

"Let's help them, shall we?" She drew her silenced pistol from the glove compartment.

"Mireille?! No! In public? We can't!"

"Relax," she said. "Mirrored windows, for one. And for two...well, you'll see." She reached for the window controls. "Watch, and learn." She hesitated. "Ah, you might want to cover your ears for this."

She did.

Mireille rolled down the window, and --

"-- and that would make no sense since then I wouldn't be a penguin, I'd be a penguine, and that's not right, but that's not important right now, what's important is the economy and the fact that orange juice is $3.44 a litre and that's an injustice 'cause I really like the stuff and now I can't afford it and my mouth is as dry as the desert which actually isn't all that dry if you eat it with haaaaaaaaaaaaail Ilpallazo because he makes the birds sing and the clouds rain and the sun shine although not all at the same time unless he's been into the cleaning supplies again and I just remembered I spilled bleach on my face this morning and it really really hurts although not as much as that time when I put out Menchi using my face (never try dog-flambé with napalm) and I missed and hit the curry udon but that's not important right now, because I have to tell you all about the wonderful new world that you'll live in when ACROSS takes over the universe and saves the whales (them's good eats!) and frees the sleighs through an equal-yet-non-deterministic redistribution scheme made possible through the genius of haaaaaaaaaaaaail Ilpallazo who is wise and hot and hunky and sexy and makes me sweat but I shouldn't sweat since I haven't had anything to drink in seven days and if I lose any moisture I'll shrivel up like a prune, and I hate prunes, but that's not important right now, what's important is that you relax, relax! You're all so tense, sheesh! Just do what I do and think of the glorious future that awaits you as free and equal life-slaves in the upcoming just and fair military dictatorship of ACROSS, where no one will go hungry since everyone will have their own emergency field rations like this one here! Aaak! Where's Menchi!? You can't leave a dog alone in this part of town; some strange sewer octopus might eat it, and Menchi is mine mine mine, with a glass of wine, and hey, is that Pinot Grand Fenwick you've got there? Gimmie! Every day will be wine day in the Glorious People's Republic of ACROSS, and you too can join it for only three easy payments of $5900.86 plus shipping and handling, although I do the shipping and the handling and I don't get paid, but that's okay, because my love for Ilpallazo-sama is all I need. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaail --"

Click.

"--Ilpalllaaasssssurglegurgle..." The screeching banshee flopped to the ground, minus a decent portion of her head. Silence rolled in, no longer displaced by the tsunami of sound coming out of her mouth. A single brass shell casing tinkled off the asphalt in an artistic fashion.

The young man leapt for joy. The bums, covered in blood, erupted into applause. The pastor, from a pile of refuse, praised whatever gods might be listening.

Mireille smiled sheepishly, waved, and then rolled up the window. She turned to her companion in the passenger seat. Huh, she thought, that woke her up all right. "Well?" she asked of her.

"That voice..." she whispered.

"That's why I soundproofed the car," said Mireille, nodding. "Fortunately, the auditory nerve tends to cut out after about half a second of exposure to it, so --"

She shook her head. "No, I mean, that voice. It sounded like yours."

Mireille did a double-take. "What?!"

"It did," she replied, perfectly serious. "I was listening."

"Are you sure that wasn't your ears bleeding or something?"

She shook her head. "It was like you, if you were someone completely different. There's some sort of connection between you two. Same voice, different face."

"I...I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, flustered. The pastor had joined the bums, the young man, and the newly-liberated hot dog vendor, and was leading them in a joyous hymn.

"Is that it then?" asked Kirika. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"Right, the demonstration," muttered Mireille. She checked the clock radio. "Okay, watch the corpse, and don't blink. It should happen right about...now!"

The universe went bloop.

The woman was suddenly on her feet, whole and even more hyperactive than before. The pastor had just remembered to scream when one of her wildly flailing limbs knocked him into a low-Earth orbit. The others howled in madness before fleeing for their lives. As for the woman, she hopped, danced, skipped, twirled, and doe-sea-doed her way right over an open manhole. Through the car's thankfully excellent insulation, Mireille could just hear a rapidly disappearing voice say, "Eeeeee I'm falling!" followed by a very distant splash.

"See?" she said, turning to the young one.

Kirika blinked. "Mireille?"

"Yes?"

"Did...the universe..."

"Just go 'bloop'?"

"Um..."

"Yep."

"Oh." She thought on this. "Um...Mireille?"

"Yeah?"

"What the hell is going on?"

Mireille leaned back in the driver's seat. "I really have absolutely no idea, Kirika," she said.

"And...the people...this happens all the time?" Kirika couldn't believe it. "Am I still dreaming?"

"Nope. You're as awake as I am, I'm afraid." Noting her partner's look of fear and confusion, she tried to comfort her. "Look, I know this isn't our usual fare, but a contract's a contract, right? Just don't think about it too much."

Suddenly, she realized something. "Wait...how did you know that would happen?"

"Let's just say," said Mireille, with a wry smile, "that that woman's little trick was enough to fund my Masters in Literary Appreciation, okay?"

"Oh." She thought some more. "But if that's true, aren't we done here?"

"Not quite. Apparently, I'm not the only one who notices little things like this." She leaned on the wheel. "Our client, the paramilitary group FREEMEN-1, specified in the contract that they wanted the target not killed or eliminated, but erased. Permanently. That's why we're here," she added, gesturing at the store they'd stopped by.

"'Rumschmit 'n Pat's Tobacco and Hot Wax Emporium'?" read Kirika, as they stepped out of the car.

"Nothing in this world is ever as it seems at first glance, Kirika," replied Mireille. "We're lucky our target cleared the streets, actually; the owners are publicity shy. You have the briefcase?" Kirika nodded, hefting a metal attaché case from the back seat. "Then, shall we?"

XXXXxxxxxxxxxxx.....

A cheery little bell jangled as they stepped through the old, oaken doorway. An overpowering scent of choice tobaccos and aromatherapy candles washed over them. Cigars, cigarettes, pipes, filters, hookahs, ash-trays, and 67 types of imported matches lined the walls, shelves, and countertops. Stacks, piles, and towers of candles (of all shapes, sizes, colours, scents, and wick-types, and composed of beeswax, earwax, paraffin wax, and, oddly enough, napalm) lay claim to almost every square centimetre of floor space. Candelabras, chandeliers, torches, and a really impressive set of hand-made Japanese paper lanterns ruled the airspace above. An ancient radio played some soft, relaxing, yet vaguely irritating bazouki music.

"Welcome, welcome!" said a dark skinned octogenarian behind the counter. "Welcome to Rumschmit 'n Pat's Tobacco and Hot Wax Emporium! And how can I help you young ladies this afternoon?" she asked, in a quavering voice.

"We're in the market for something special," said Mireille, stepping around a tower of wax and under a Mid-Victorian period chandelier.

"Well, you're in luck!" said the woman, whose name-tag read 'Rumschmit.' "We've a brand-new shipment of lilac-scented aromatherapy candles carved in the shape of pixies and fairies (straight from Switzerland), and a wide selection of Razentov Modern Women™ telescopic filters (available in seven colours!)."

"Thanks, but no thanks," she replied, almost toppling a display stand of Black Death Cigarellos.

"Something for the young one, then? We've over seventy types of toffee and chocolates over in the corner (behind the hookah, you see). Or some leg wax? This new Naptha Acid-X stuff goes right down to the roots, you know," said the woman, proffering a bottle.

Mireille, having finally reached the counter, leaned on it and looked the woman straight in the eye. "We're here to see your other wares, Miss Vincent."

The woman looked right back at her. "I have no idea what you're talking about, young woman," she said, her face perfectly expressionless.

"My Uncle Claude sends his regards."

She cocked her head to one side. "Claude Feyder? Tall, shaggy blonde, fine figure in a dress?"

"Yes," replied Mireille, wincing at that last comment.

The woman nodded. "You must be his famous niece, then. Although I don't recognize her...?"

"Her name's Kirika. A partner of mine."

The woman nodded again, then shuffled over to the bead curtain covering a door to the rear of the shop. "May? May! We have a customer!"

"You handle it!" screeched a voice from the back. "I'm busy back here with the, ah, candles!"

"No, no! A real customer!"

"Woo!" A few hurried footsteps later, and a tiny woman in her late twenties wearing sandals, a flak jacket, a hair net, and gloves, and carrying what was clearly a large coffee-can of crystallized nitro-glycerine (according to the label, complete with felt-drawn happy face) exploded (figuratively, thankfully) through the bead curtain. "Bomby bomby bomby bomby," she sang, as she set down the can and did a little shuffle.

Mireille and Kirika stepped back, in unison.

"Knock it off, May," said Miss Vincent, all trace of old age banished from her voice. "Ready?" The small one pulled a chrome-plated key from her blouse, as the moderately-taller one did the same. In sync, they inserted both keys into either ear of a small ceramic cat statue located next to the till, and turned them.

Kirika jumped as thick titanium security shutters slammed down over the windows and doors. Shelves of recreational combustibles rotated on hidden axes to reveal sparkling racks of hand grenades, pistols, assault rifles, and machine guns from all eras and nations. Stacks of candles disappeared through trap doors, out of which rose display stands of body armour, throwing knives, and Stinger missile launchers (in five designer colours). One of the larger chandeliers retracted noisily up into the dark ceiling, and then came back down moments later bearing what appeared to be a small tactical nuclear missile.

Mireille, although having been briefed on the store before, was nonetheless impressed. "I'm impressed," she said.

"It's a real pain to keep all the chains oiled, but it does keep the customers entertained," said Miss Vincent.

And the staff, thought Mireille, noting the happy dance the one called May was performing. "Is that one stuck?" she asked, pointing to one display on the counter filled with perfectly ordinary cigars.

"Huh? Oh, no, no." Miss Vincent popped one in her mouth and took a bite out of it. "Beef jerky. A lot of our customers are trying to quit nowadays, so..."

"Ah. Quite a set-up; I imagine the tobacco and candles throws off most of the inspection teams, then?"

"Well, one of those JDF folks brought in a bomb-sniffing dog a while back," recalled Miss Vincent. "I think it went into shock after thirty seconds."

"Although it's you I'm most impressed by," she said, nodding at Miss Vincent. "You can't be more than twenty, thirty years old, correct?"

"A bit of makeup goes a long way," she replied.

Kirika gasped as the little woman pulled a rocket launcher off a shelf and aimed it at her. "Booooooom," said the one called May.

"Oh, knock it off, May," said Miss Vincent, rolling her eyes. "Go check on the DPU-discarding-sabot rounds or something."

"Glee!" The little woman jumped for joy. Something round soared out of one of her sleeves.

"Grenade!" shouted Mireille and Kirika. The former dived behind some body armour, while the latter instinctively leapt for the window.

"Oops," said the one called May, as Kirika crashed into the security shutters face-first.

"Ow," whimpered Kirika, from the floor.

"Out! Out! Out!" shouted Miss Vincent.

The one called May cringed and scurried into the back. Milliseconds later, she returned, snatched up the grenade, kissed it, popped it in her blouse, and scurried into the back. Several seconds later, she leaned through the curtain, squeaked a sheepish "Sorry!" and then scurried into the back. Again.

"I am so, so sorry, Miss," said Miss Vincent to Mireille. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah, she's pretty tough," said Mireille, helping her partner to her feet.

"The room is spinning again," said a slightly dazed Kirika.

"Anyway, what're you interested in? Handguns? The SOCOM's pretty popular nowadays, but you look more of a Walther kind of woman."

"And you'd be right," said Mireille, with a touch of admiration. "But we're looking for something a bit heavier than what we usually use."

"Assault rifle?" suggested Miss Vincent. "The FN P90?" she asked, pointing it out on the wall. "Compact, robust construction, 50-round clip, tears through armour like butter?"

"No," said Mireille, thoughtfully, "I don't think that will do the job."

"Machine gun?"

"No."

"M-79 grenade launcher? Stinger missile? CIA surplus, very cheap?"

"Tempting, but no."

"Uh, I've got a prototype particle beam in the back? The Japanese Defence Force should really change its locks once in a while," she added, upon seeing her customer's expression.

"Look," said Mireille, seeing how this wasn't getting anywhere, "we need something that can take out this." She placed a picture of her target (eating an ice-cream cone while using a rusty pike to behead some small beige-coloured creature) on the counter.

Miss Vincent gave a low whistle. "Wow, you're up against her? You're either very, very good, or very, very stu -- ambitious."

"Look," said Mireille, slightly irritated by that last comment, "I came here because I heard you were the best. I heard that you were the most trusted, reliable, and well-stocked arms broker on three continents. I heard that you were one of the most successful bounty hunters in the business, and that you have a reputation for always using the right gun for the right job. And I want to know, what can take her out? Permanently?"

"Okay, okay, just give me a second." She drummed her fingers on the countertop. "Well, you're within city limits, so that's out of the question," she muttered, with a nod to the nuclear weapon suspended overhead. "And I don't think any conventional weapon will give you the results you need..."

"So, there's nothing, then?"

"Hang on, hang on, I'm thinking!" She paced a little. "Like I said, there's no conventional weapon that could do the job, but..."

"But?"

"There is...a legend," began Miss Vincent.

"This should be interesting..."

"In around 1235 A.D., there was this group of cultists in Japan called the White Hands. They were doomsayers, and believed an apocalyptic battle between good and evil would occur during their lifetime. They approached the legendary sword smith Rattori Banzo and demanded that he create arms for this upcoming struggle. He agreed, and after seven years, forged the twin swords Tenchi no Kami and Chiisainezumi no Kami, the ultimate blades of good and evil. Realizing that the cultists wished to use the blades to actually start the apocalypse, he slew them all, but was himself killed in the process."

"The legend gets a bit fuzzy at this point. Apparently the swords were separated, and wandered the earth for hundreds of years, turning up in all sorts of legends under various names; I won't bore you with the details, since I don't know them. Obscure news reports say that the blades were finally reunited by one Azagoth the Terrible on June 9, 1817, the date of the last heliocentric planetary alignment. I think he was trying to raise Cthulhu or Sir Issac Newton or something. Anyway, he was stopped by some league of less than ordinary gentlepersons seconds before completing the ceremony. This shattered both blades to bits. An alchemist known only as Rudyard Kipling later stole the shards from a high-security vault in the Tower of London, and forged them into a set of shells. Rumour has it that the bullet that struck Archduke Ferdinand came from that set of shells. They are said to bring woe, death, and destruction wherever they go, and to slay anything they strike. But no one knows where, or when, they will turn up next."

Mireille let this all sink in. "Ordinarily," she began, "I would slap you for wasting my time like that. But since I'm desperate, and since you've enough ordinances within arms reach to level a small city, I'll bite. Do you have them, and how much?"

"No."

"So," said Mireille, seething, "in other words, you've just wasted ten minutes of my life?"

"I meant, 'no, we don't have those, but we do have these Taiwanese knock-offs.'" She plunked a ratty-looking cardboard box onto the counter. "9 millimetre, right?" she asked, flipping the lid open.

The lights in the store faded. The box glowed ghoulishly. A chill wind howled about the room, rattling the shelves. Chthonic voices chattered from dark corners. And Mireille swore she could hear someone whispering the text of The Grapes of Wrath in her left ear. In Swedish.

"Uh, yeah, we think that's just a little quirk in the production process," said Miss Vincent of the paranormal phenomena.

Mireille ignored her. There were twelve bullets, in two rows of six. Half were gold, and glowed with menacing red aura, as if already drenched in the blood of innocents. The others were silver, and radiated a frigid, electric light that hinted at divine retribution. Each was covered in subtle sigils somehow engraved both on, above, and below the metal's surface. Entranced, she reached out with one cautious hand to touch them.

Miss Vincent snatched the box away and glared at her. "Never, ever, touch them like that," she warned.

Mireille shook off the enchantment. "Oh, you mean, not without those rune and gemstone-encrusted gloves I see pinned to the lid?"

Miss Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Not without paying, I mean."

"Oh, right. Kirika?"

"Mm?" she said, as if she'd just dozed off.

"The suitcase?"

Kirika set the attaché case on the counter and clicked it open. "This should do it, I think," said her partner.

"Hmm," said Miss Vincent, thoughtfully examining the case's contents.

"Is it enough?" asked Mireille.

"Well, it's a bit tough to tell, actually. Seeing as you've offered me a carrot cake and all."

Mireille blinked, then did a double-take at the case's contents. "Kirika!" she scolded. "Other case! The other case!" Her partner mumbled some sleepy apologies and trudged towards the door, where she paused.

"Mireille? I don't have the -- ow!" The car keys pinged off her forehead. She collected them and left.

"Sorry about that," said Mireille visibly embarrassed. "Jet lag. Amnesia. Existential angst. Y'know."

"Ah, the terrors of youth," replied Miss Vincent, nodding sagely. "Although it is a nice cake. I like the rabbit in the corner. Now that's more like it," she added, as Kirika set a second open case on the counter.

"And?" said Mireille, as the shopkeeper gave the cash a quick count.

"Not even close," she said, shutting the case with a snap.

"What?! But there's over --"

"Listen, lady," said Miss Vincent, with a wry look, "I know government agents and secret cabalists who'll give me triple what you have here to even look at these babies." Mireille seethed.

"We'll throw in the cake," said Kirika.

"Eh?" said Mireille.

Miss Vincent considered this. "Okay, okay. One of each, and that's just because you're cute, and because that is one delicious-looking cake. Man, if I had a spoon handy..."

Kirika produced one from her sleeve. Mireille gave her a look.

"We were out of forks," she explained.

XXXXxxxxxxxxxxx.....

"News reports say that the target has been spotted somewhere in this park," said Mireille, as she pulled over next to it. "Most of the civilians have already fled the area, but there were reports that she had a hostage of some sort; we'll have to aim carefully. Remember; according to Miss Vincent, we have to hit her with both rounds at the same time for maximum effect. Stay close, and use your ear-plugs."

"Eh?" said Kirika, who already had them in.

Mireille sighed, stepped out of the car, and rolled for the cover of a nearby bush, her partner following like a shadow. Moving silently, flitting from tree to tree, they made their way to the centre of the park, following the trail of dropped books, snapped branches, and trampled grass that marked the panicked flight of the park's usual inhabitants.

Kirika touched her arm, and pointed. Mireille saw the distant column of smoke, and nodded. Cautiously, the two hands of death stalked forth to the edge of a clearing. Mireille raised a set of binoculars.

The mad, orange-haired woman, dressed in a puffy chef's hat and a blood-stained apron, had set up a large black cauldron above a small cooking fire in the centre of the clearing. She was selecting bottles (apparently at random) off a large wheeled spice and condiment cabinet next to her, pouring and sprinkling substances into the pot. Occasionally, she would pause to salivate over a small dog she had trussed up to a nearby stick. The dog looked rather miserable.

Mireille motioned for her partner to follow her lead. She crawled commando-style out onto the grass, using a slight depression in the land for cover. Soon she was within ten meters of the crazed culinary auteur. At this range, the earplugs lost some of their effectiveness; fortunately, the woman was talking so quickly that all Mireille could hear was a sort of high-pitched squealing. She nodded to her partner, and mouthed the words, "On three."

One...two...

And then, with an ear-bleeding shriek of "In yah go!" the woman grabbed the trussed up canine and prepared to toss it bodily into the pot.

There was a rush of air behind her. "Kirika!" cried Mireille. Then the girl was airborne, flipping, twisting, and grabbing the helpless dog right from the immortal's hands. She landed, rolled, and drew her weapon. Mireille gasped, and barely had time to aim before her partner pulled the trigger.

The barrel spat purple-green flames, and roared exactly like an express train from Hell. Mireille gasped as the recoil flung her onto her back. Briefly, she had a vision of vast, malignant horde of scale and steel encrusted things, wrapped in flames of blood, screaming in murderous tongues, charging across the field, scorching and churning the earth in their passage. A second host, one of light, wings, and glittering spears, soared forth to meet it. Betwixt the two stood the woman, bearing a bottle of Worcestershire sauce and a rather confused facial expression. The forces of Armageddon rushed towards her, met, swirled, clashed --

Mireille barely looked away in time. Strangely, there was no noise, only light. The shockwave lifted her off the ground and hurled her through the air. Instinctively, she latched onto a passing tree; just in time, too, as it saved her from a gristly death from the implosion that followed seconds later. For a few moments, the great wind held her perpendicular to the ground, as leaves, branches, and a couple of squirrels whipped by her at just under the speed of sound. Then, mercifully, just as she felt her grip starting to slip, the deafening wind roared itself into silence. She could breathe again. She could hear again.

Someone was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Kirika?

No, wait, she thought. It's me. Stop that, me.

She unlatched her arms from the severely-bent larch she'd hooked onto, slumped to the ground, and then opened her eyes.

What was once an arboreal paradise was now a blasted, desolate land. A medium sized crater, the walls of which were fused into something like solid glass, had replaced the centre of the clearing. Surrounding it was several meters worth of incinerated plant life; several small fires still smouldered in it. In a sort of bizarre reversal of the Tunguska explosion, all the vegetation surrounding the clearing was now almost level with the ground, pointing towards its centre.

Making a mental note to fill out a positive Customer Satisfaction survey on her next visit to Rumschmit 'n Pat's, Mireille removed her earplugs (they did nothing for that irritating ringing she was hearing anyway) and took a few shaky steps towards the crater. "Kirika?" she asked, softly. "Kirika? Kirika!"

A flame-kissed bush rustled as a short Japanese girl stepped out of it, cradling her stomach.

"Uh, are you okay?" asked Mireille. Kirika nodded, softly, got to her feet, and joined up with her partner.

That's when she saw it.

"Haven't we been over this already?" sighed Mireille, as the newly-liberated hostage licked her partner's chin.

"I will call her 'Buttons,'" whispered Kirika, ignoring her.

"Yep, definitely getting some serious déjà vu here," muttered Mireille. The dog yapped in excitement.

"Did we get her?" asked Kirika.

Mireille gestured at the surroundings. "I think we can consider her well and truly 'got,' don't you?"

"What's that, then?" asked Kirika, pointing.

Mireille looked.

In the exact centre of the clearing there was a very tiny point of light that hurt the eyes when she stared at it. When she squinted, Mireille thought she could distinguish a tiny spiral of particulates circling about a point of absolute blackness, forming two long spires that radiated outwards in opposite directions as they piled up about that point.

"Well," she began, "my Hawking's a bit rusty, but if I were to make a guess, I'd say that's some sort of microscopic black hole."

"Oh." Kirika scratched the dog under one of its ears. "Is it safe to leave it there?"

"Can you move a quantum singularity?"

She pondered this. "No?" she replied.

"Well, then, there you go."

"But this is a public park. What if someone got hurt by it?"

Mireille considered the moral implications. "I suppose we could make some sort of a sign," she mused. "'Warning! Black Hole! Do Not Eat!' or something like that."

"You'll do much more than that!" said a voice behind her.

Two guns pointed at it in less than a heartbeat. Two professional assassins were slightly confused several heartbeats later.

"What...the...?" said Mireille.

"It's a galaxy," said Kirika. "With arms. And nice nails."

"What...who are you?" said Mireille, getting a grip on herself.

"I am the Cosmic Will of the Universe," said...well...the Cosmic Will of the Universe (CWotU).

"And?"

"I am that which makes sure all things happen in their due course."

"...Aaand?"

"Well, mostly I just resurrect that stupid girl whenever she gets herself killed," said the CWotU, with some irritation, "but that's what I would be doing if it wasn't for her."

"So, you're the one responsible for her immortality," said Mireille.

"Yes, and I must say, you've been a great source of irritation to me in the past, Miss Mireille Bouquet. I can't turn my back five minutes to create an interesting species of protozoa in a pond of primordial goo five thousand years from now without you coming along and shooting her head off. Shame on you!"

"Ow!" she said, as the CWotU bonked her on the head.

"And you've certainly given me a job this time. A black hole? Honestly, such overkill. And don't think you'll get away scot free this time either. I've given you plenty of chances in the past (27, I think), but this is the last straw! Let's see," said the CWotU, looking thoughtful, "should I rewind time back to the moment of creation and edit you out of existence, or just turn you into a brainless blonde bimbo? Decisions, decisions, decis --"

Mireille shot the CWotU seven times in what was hopefully its face.

"Well, I never!" it said. Then it bled a bit, made some choking noises, and exploded in a small, localized supernova.

Mireille blew the smoke from the barrel of her Walther. She noticed her partner giving her a look of shock.

"How..." began Kirika.

"You never know until you try," replied Mireille, smiling.

eat the path

[Author's note: and why have the Gunsmith Cats relocated to F Province? Taxation, of course.]