Disclaimer: See first chapter, yadda yadda
A/N: Well, this bit here is all I have typed up. The rest are all in my notebooks—just means that it'll be a little bit before my next update, Tuesday at the latest. I just have to tap it all up and whatnot. I've been unbelievably busy with school and rehearsals and whatnot. Eurgh.
Did I tell you guys yet that I'll be cosplaying Millia for AnimeBoston? I don't think I have yet, but now you know. Lol.
What else, what else? Thank you, Hugh, for your kind words, and for pointing out that error of mine. I shall correct it as soon as I have time. Thanks! A cookie to ya! Heeheehee.
Onward! And just as a sidenote, I apologise if Miwako seems a bit Suish—believe me, I'm all too aware. I guarantee that she won't be in the fic that much, I just needed her to push things along a little bit. Otherwise, enjoy.
Chapter 2: Nurse Miwako
A few minutes later, Millia found herself being lead down the hall of the Headquarters' second floor, and through the elaborate double-doors of a guests' bedchamber. She was left at the threshold by her escort, informed that a nurse would come in a half-hour's time to dress her wounds, and told to relax and make herself at home in the meantime. He closed the door behind him with a respectful farewell, presumably to stand uselessly outside under the guise of keeping watch.
Millia said nothing; she merely sighed.
The room was nice, she decided immediately, but too nice. It seemed that the International Police Force cared a great deal about its guests. A huge, king-sized canopy bed sprawled before her, dressed in fresh blue linens with a gigantic, latched trunk resting at its foot. Its posts were a dark mahogany, and glistened in the way that only the brand new or meticulously polished could glisten. Five or six white pillows were neatly stacked against the headboard.
Adjacent to the bed was a writing desk. Its colour was the same rich brown as the bedposts. The gold knobs on the drawers shone dully in the tawny lamplight, and Millia saw a sheaf of fresh paper, quills, ink, and wax tablets on its spotless surface. A plush chair was set nearby.
Such was the only furniture in the room, but she was still unimpressed and even mildly irritated to behold its lavishness. It was irksome to see that funds were spent on such luxuries, when clearly reinforcements were direly needed.
Her boots making small depressions in the plush, maroon carpet, Millia approached the gigantic bed and sat down stiffly. She saw a small corridor to her left, but didn't bother getting up to investigate where it led. It was most likely the bath-chamber and she had no desire at all to see other ways in which money was wasted. Sighing deeply, she leaned forward and removed her boots and her socks, beginning immediately to massage her sore right calf.
As her fingers worked expertly at the aching muscle, she flinched at the fiery needles of agony that pierced her skin. Sucking her breath in through her teeth in short, pained gasps, she worked at it until the tautness dissipated and she was able to flex her foot. If she'd keep off of it tonight, she'd be able to walk the next day without interference.
Crossing her arms, she leaned back, sinking into the coverlet. Unblinkingly, she stared up at the canopy. For the first time since what'd happened earlier, and with nothing that had to be immediately done, she allowed herself to drift away with her thoughts.
No recognition. Not a shred of…of anything. Oh yes, there was anger, a deep and senseless anger that seemed to fuel his very existence, but not the kind of anger she expected, the kind she deserved.
Her lips trembled, and she pursed them to make them still. What he'd become…that was far more unbearable than the vengeful being of her imaginings. Those beasts of shadow at his command, his voice, a specter in itself that tore her mind asunder.
Presently, she shuddered at the thought, acutely aware of every scratch and bruise and mark on her body. Though she hurt, more so now than perhaps an hour ago, her wounds were a reminder of life, a reminder of triumph.
Even if it didn't feel like triumph.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the ugly thought as if she could effectively nip it at the bud, and averted her head to the side. Not triumph. Not anything. Had it been the right thing, to do what she did by destroying what was left of her former Master?
It was a mercy.
But even if it was a mercy, it didn't feel like one. It felt like grey, a stark grey between the blacks and the whites that made up the rest of her life. She just didn't understand.
At least with Venom, things had been clear.
Undeniably, inescapably clear.
A knocking at the door interrupted her miserable reverie. For a long moment, she misunderstood it, and simply stared blankly in its direction. Then, she remembered that a nurse was on her way, and she sat up, clearing her throat.
"Come in," she said quietly, and the door swung open.
The nurse was an image straight from some twelve-year-old boy's wet dream. She was small, cute, and bouncy, and dressed entirely in white from the cap on her head to the shoes on her feet. Her dress was short and very tight, and her vibrantly red hair was pulled into two pigtails. Rubber gloves adorned her hands; she carried a very large medical bag. She smiled brightly, and offered Millia a jaunty little wave of greeting.
"'Allo!" she said buoyantly, her voice very much the opposite of the perky schoolgirl cuteness that was Millia's expectation.
She managed a small smile that matched her mild amusement.
"Hello," she replied. And then, as an afterthought, "They really make you dress like that?"
"They don't make me," the nurse replied with a small laugh, and set her bag on the nightstand. Glancing at the her nametag, Millia noticed that her name was "Miwako"
"Golly, you look beat up," Miwako said, tutting as she examined Millia's wounds. "The heck happened to ya, anyways?"
"A battle," Millia replied politely.
"A battle?" Miwako echoed, raising an amber eyebrow. Millia noted a distinctive change of character from the bubbly young woman who had skipped in just a few seconds ago. A façade of naivete? How interesting. She nodded in response.
"You shouldn't be fighting,"Miwako advised, rummaging about in her bag and tossing rolls of gauze and tubes of antiseptic cremes on the nightstand. "A pretty girl like you…you should be waiting at home for someone to propose to you."
Millia chuckled lightly, amused.
"If only it were that easy," she said, before she could stop herself. The nurse had an aura of friendliness and ease that made speaking to her remarkably simple. Had she been able to make the comparison, Millia would have labeled her as "motherly," and mused over the contrast between that and her perky appearance.
"Oh c'mon, don't say that," Miwako scolded on cue to Millia's thoughts, scrubbing at the scrapes on her arm with some rubbing alcohol. She applied a thin layer of antiseptic cream, and wrapped the wounds in gauze. "You have such pretty hair. It's rare to see a girl these days who keeps it as long as you do."
She ran a gentle hand through Millia's presently dormant locks, and Millia smirked, despite herself.
"Thank you," she said. "It's kind of you to say so."
Miwako laughed delightedly, much to Millia's confusion.
"Kind of me to say so, she says," she chuckled. "What's your name, honey?"
"Millia," she told her, after a second's hesitation. "You are Miwako, correct?"
"Yup," Miwako said, not stopping her healing even to look at Millia. Apparently, she didn't recognize her name, and if she did, well, she seemed to not care. It was confusing.
"So you're working for the IPF now, I hear?" Miwako asked distractedly as she worked.
"Yes," Millia said, looking up at the ceiling. "Do you?"
"Hmm…mostly," Miwako replied. "I'm pretty freelance, actually. I try to do what I can for whoever I can."
"That's admirable," Millia commended. Miwako shrugged nonchalantly.
"Just doing what I want," she said. "There's more money this way, too, to tell you the truth. Most of my patients are from the IPF, though, or IPF prisoners. We'll probably be seeing a lot of each other."
She flashed her a warm smile. Millia tentatively smiled back, but there was no mirth or warmth. Her earlier worries about the bounty list had returned full-force.
"There," Miwako said, wrapping her calf in an ace bandage. "All set. Just put some salt on that eye."
"Why not ice?" Millia mumbled distractedly.
"Salt, ice, whatever," Miwako replied, bustling about and packing her things back into her voluminous bag. "That gauze is waterproof, too. You can bathe in it, just don't get it totally soaked."
"All right. Thank you," Millia said earnestly.
"No problem," Miwako said with another smile. "You take care, Millia. Rest up."
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she turned and started walking towards the door. Millia was just about to say goodbye when she turned around, and raised her finger in a pointing gesture.
"Oh yeah," she said, producing a piece of folded white paper from her breast pocket. "Mr. Kiske told me to give you this."
What?
Millia started to get up, but Miwako bustled over to the bedside, and handed her the paper.
"There you go, hon," the redhead said as she turned to leave once more. "You have a good night."
"You as well," Millia said, frowning as she unfolded the sheet.
Her frown only deepened as she read what was on it.
Miss Rage:
Would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning, so we might discuss the specifics of our objective?
-Ky Kiske, Head of IPF
His title in his signature was the lone indication of formality in the entire short request. However, the request itself was formal enough. It wasn't completely ludicrous to want to discuss the specifics of an objective, was it?
Sighing deeply, Millia approached the desk and picked up a pen, writing neatly on the back.
Mr. Kiske:
Yes, I will have breakfast with you to discuss the specifics of our mission.
-Millia Rage.
Folding the paper in half and in half again, she handed it to the sentry outside her door with the instruction of bringing it to Mr. Kiske, then returned back to her chamber with the intention of running a bath.
What had she gotten herself into?