Disclaimer: See chapter one, please.

Author's notes: I apologize for how long it took for me to update. My computer had some difficulties so I couldn't write this fic for awhile. I've also been grounded. I still AM grounded, unfortunately. But, I promise my updates will fall into regular flow again soon…I most certainly have not forgotten about this fic and many thanks to my loyal reviewers for all your kind words. You guys rock my socks. Enjoy this chapter, it's short, but the next one will be longer and much more interesting. Venom shows up.

Don't forget to review!

Much love,

Kirie

PS: Does anyone like the Angel Sanctuary manga series? I read all 11 volumes in one week…can't wait for number twelve!

Chapter 3: A Chat over Breakfast

By the time Millia had finished with her bath, the sentry informed her that Mr. Kiske had sent word back. She was instructed to meet him in the dining hall at nine o'clock the next morning. However, she decided immediately that she was going to show up at five past nine, if only to make a point that she considered herself to be the important one here and that she had the right to make a late appearance. However, when she came down to the generously lit, gigantic dining hall, she was disappointed to see that the only other soul in the place was an aging butler.

"Good morning, Miss Driver," he said cordially.

"Good morning," she replied, bewildered.

"How may I be of service to you?" he asked.

"I'm all right, for now," she assured him, noticing vaguely that the tailored suit he was wearing must've cost a fortune. He nodded curtly, and departed to wait alongside the double-door threshold.

Two minutes passed, and still no sign of Mr. Kiske. Five minutes. Seven minutes.

Bored, Millia attempted to amuse herself by taking in every detail of the place that she could. The table she was sitting at was long and rectangular, lined by six high-backed chairs on both sides. The woodwork was, unsurprisingly, a dark brown in colour, and a gilded cloth was spread over the table's surface. A huge chandelier hung overhead, all of its candles lit, and Millia needed only to turn her head slightly to the left to look out the French windows and watch the storm, which had diminished to a gentle rumbling of thunder and a calm pattering of rain.

Eight minutes. Ten.

"I would like some tea, please," she said, firmly but politely to the butler, who immediately rushed off to obey. If this lateness on his part was intentional, she would not be made a fool of by sitting awkwardly and daydreaming.

Sighing deeply, she crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. She noticed paintings on the walls, and chose to look at them, a fiery landscape being a particular object of interest. Just as she was beginning to drift off into its vibrant oranges and reds, the double doors opened, and her reverie was broken.

Ky Kiske scurried rather than walked over to the table, and she watched him calculatingly, with carefully controlled amusement. His uniform seemed rumpled, and his hair a mess. Those shadows under his eyes were more evident than ever, and Millia immediately deducted that he was finishing up some last minute paperwork. He chose a seat across from her rather than at one of the table's ends, which surprised her, and removed a sheaf of papers and a pen from his coat pocket.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," he said, flattening the papers with the palms of his hands on the desk. "I had some paperwork that I absolutely had to finish."

Millia raised a brow.

"No problem," she said. Then, "You ought to invest in a secretary."

He shook his head.

"I can't—not nearly enough funds. You could have asked for something, you know."

He offered her a tremulous, boyish smile, and just on time, the butler came to the table with the pot of tea and two cups. Millia smiled back.

"I did," she corrected. "Tea?"

"Please."

She filled both of their cups, and looked at him pointedly, both brows raised.

"I believe you wished to discuss our objective?" she asked, as she added milk to her cup.

He chuckled lightly, and accepted the milk when she passed it to him.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he asked.

"No," she replied, quite flatly. "I don't. What is the objective here?"

She knew what it was, of course, but she was curious to hear it from him. He still seemed a little wet behind the ears, after all, and it wouldn't hurt to determine the ethics of who she was now working with. It surprised her a little bit when he produced some papers from a binder she had not noticed him carrying before. He slid them across the table for her to look at, and she furrowed her brow as she squinted to read his handwriting.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Eyewitness accounts," Ky replied. "From various citizens."

"A woman in a red dress who fights with a guitar," Millia read aloud. Something tugged at her memory, but she ignored it, for the moment. "Not to rain on your parade, Mr. Kiske-"

"Ky."

She looked up from the papers. He was looking at her again…looking at her in that same way he did last night. That unreadable emotion was shining in his eyes, and just like before, she didn't like it. It bothered her.

"Mr. Kiske," she repeated stiffly, not at all comfortable with lowering formalities to first name basis, at least not yet. She had only met the man the night before, after all. He blushed just a little bit-if that wasn't a blatant sign of his youth; Millia didn't know what was-and nodded in consent of her correction. She cleared her throat.

"That description can be applied to anyone. I can think of a lot of musicians who wear red."

"I know," he replied, and gestured to the papers. "Just read on."

"Reported arson of a Chinese restaurant, rude woman in a red dress-distribution of a bounty list, young musician wearing red leather. Okay. Hold on," she said, shutting the binder and pushing it away for the moment. She closed her eyes, massaging both temples with the tips of her nails. Musician in a short red dress…that was familiar, damn it…

"We have a suspect," Ky said. "It can't be mere coincidence that so many people reported this woman. She tried to turn them all against each other with that list, apparently, so if we find her, we can find out who she's working for. Whoever she is."

"I-no!" Millia exclaimed, for she had finally placed a name to the face in her mind.

"What?"

"I-no," she repeated. "The woman's name is I-no. I heard it from one of the bounty hunters who came after me when that list came out."

"Great," Ky said, the relief in his voice palpable. "Where do we start looking?"

Millia's eyes narrowed to angry slits as she glared at him from across the table. How had he become head of the IPF again?

"The eyewitnesses," she said, shoving the binder back across the table. "These people are bound to know something."

"I know that, Miss Rage," Ky replied, a trifle angrily, "I meant whom do we question first?"

She shook her head, vaguely peeved at his annoyance.

"My mistake," she said. "That restaurant owner seems as good a start as any. What do you think?"

Ky shrugged, and finished his tea.

"Sounds fine to me. Let's go."