A Narrow Space
1.
Flora runs her fingers down the ragged grip of her sword. She lets out a sigh. She squints at the distance ahead. But she knows delay is unwholesome and unprofessional.
She tries not to imagine the words of her handler, already repeated a thousand times; he always slurs when it comes to reminding her to finish as fast as possible so that her services can be utilized elsewhere. And she gets more impatient thinking about the task – the regular, banal, cut-and-slash task: a mission – no, a motion, –any hired hand swinging a sword can do.
But work is work. She erases her hold on the hilt. A flex of her elbow, a slight numbing of her shoulders, and the blade is back in its position of perched safety on her back, nestled gingerly in its sheath, lodged tightly in the small of her back. An armoured back.
She wants to waste time to scour her eyes with the dirty yellow shroud that the morning sun provides. She wishes she can finish her breakfast, to savour the remaining sticks of wild game while watching the easterly wind paw and scratch its way through the overgrown scrub.
But work is work. Work is saving lives. And she must finish this business by tonight.
Who knows what evil tomorrow will bring? she tells herself. But she knows the question is overly subjective for someone like her to answer.
2.
Flora waits and watches, in the hollow of several tall trees. The designated town lies in the valley below: a cluttered congregation of boxy houses cramped into a river's meander, like a scattering of child's toys on the edge of some giant carpet. She observes: pencil-like strokes of chimney smoke indicate habitation, the spread of maize-coloured fields beyond suggest an agricultural outpost, and the lack of visible activity – she cannot be sure –
Probably collective paranoia.
And the filthy stain of yoki, so blatant, finds its way to her, like a decayed morsel of a meal left served for too long. She thinks it's too obvious, too flamboyant even for a hungry yoma to display his yoki like a red flag in such a quiet town. But at the moment, she does not think it relevant: just a technicality, a death wish, an invitation.
She manages an easy pace. The entire valley basking before her narrows down into a single rock-straddled path, dumped with wrecks of shepherds' fences, wildflower overgrowth and cattle faeces. The trees, now overtaken by more demure vegetation, trail away, and soon she forgets the shade and security the hollow atop the hill provides. The sunshine, she sees, casts an outline of dark shadow around everything. The day, she feels, is beginning to turn against her.
When she reaches the foot of the rise, boxed in by the twin knolls of both sides of the valley, she can see the first few houses, mud-stained into brown and overwhelmed with vines, a stretch of river shore peeking from behind their crowded forms. She knows: she does not expect a welcome; there is no one in sight anyway. Nonetheless, she twirls a lock of hair. She is still worried – although neutrally-concerned is the better word – about how they will see her.
She crosses the threshold. A window slams. Glass carpets her way as she observes some houses. There is blood on a windowsill. Oh yes – there is blood. She ignores the implications. She treks straight down the main street of the deserted town, the sun still mutelessly holding its gaze in the upper right of her vision, imprinting a glow onto everything she sees. She senses human flesh, hiding, crouching, afraid, cowering. She knows, she knows, the yoma is among them too.
At the end of the main street is the muddy little river, its meander so pronounced its banks have carved slops and sandbars for boats. The water is stagnant, rich in waste, invaded by sedge and other plants Flora never tried to learn. She decides she is not going to learn anything from indulging in the pitiless scenery, so she tries to sweep the town, starting first at the nearest house to the river.
She does not bother to knock. An elbow to the door, and then a push, probably a kick with her right foot, always lends her an entrance. But her easy progress confirms her suspicions: the town is abandoned. Flora persists anyway, because the Organizations orders cannot be wrong.
There is a house with a thrashed porch, and an assortment of shattered ceramic around its door like fine powder.
She enters the dwelling. And the whole house collapses on her.
3.
Flora knows she has been ambushed. There were at least two yoma, but their attempt to contain her in a trap of just wood and brick is – at least she feels – completely amateurish. As the roof caves in, she punches her away the rotting rafters and then – and then – she spots the yoma. And then – and then – she is fast enough to catch the arm of one of them, aiming directly for her face.
The yoma's claws extend by almost double its length.
"You!" he shrieks.
She has him by the wrist, but as his nails extend, they start to graze her face – her cheek tingles. She has no hands, no room to draw her sword. The other yoma is circling, tearing down the beams that are starting to pelt down on her.
Coward! Fight me, monster!
"Then come and get me!" he yells. And the beams above slam across her outstretched elbows.
She knows it's now or never. The yoma's claws flay once across her face. She feels them dig into her earlobe. She knows if she doesn't do it now – she knows – she knows she won't survive the ambush –
When she feels the yoki in flowing down from her wrist she forces it into her fingers, and clamps it down on the offending arm. She seizes the yoma's wrist, and pulls the entire arm in an arc across the room.
"Freak!"
Her hands are free for weaponry. Her fingers, now yoki-enhanced, just need one sweep – one draw of her sword – and then everything around her turns into a swirling mass of wind-burning debris. Including the yoma.
The remnants of the house fly themselves in a circle around her. The second yoma, defenceless, stares, dumbly, standing in the middle of the debris like fish out of water.
"Witch! Can't even fight without using your –"
Flora doesn't wait. She flicks her wrist like she has so many times. And then all she feels is the wind.
There are no more monsters. Not even body parts; just fragments. Splinters. Blood.
From among the other ruined houses, men and women and children begin to appear, scattered like the destroyed house all around her. They are whispering. She thinks it's because she's been disheveled from the fight, that her hair is completely in a mess. But, unconsciously, as she strokes her hair into place, she finds her palms drenched in blood.
4.
"– to the man in black –"
They are not even interested. They do not even offer her water to wash her wounds. They simply stand around, whispering, murmuring, rudely. Like the sheep they raise, they watch and gape at her, rigid.
Flora decides it is not worth the trouble to stay. She does not need people to keep pointing at the lacerations on her face. She glances at them another time, and then moves away from the wrecked house, in the direction of where she knows she will be getting another command to kill more yoma. She fixes her Claymore, and then she filters through the thickening crowd.
But then she hears, amidst the din, a child's voice: "Is that a Claymore?"
Someone tells him to be quiet, but she cleanly hears the boy's retort:
"She's beautiful!"
She slows; she does not come to a complete stop until she passes from the crowd. Ahead of her she sees the crest of the rise, the stripes of cloud-shadow criss-crossing the sides of the valley like a ladder that she knows she needs to climb sooner or later. Sheep bleat from behind her; the growling of the low voiced crowd. And the whiny, high-pitched voice:
"But she is beautiful!"
With her hand covering her scratched face, she about-turns. The child is pointing at her; but his finger, his stare, his exciting jabber, is not accusatory.
The ladder to another town can wait for now, she decides.
EDIT:
My shortest fic. A simple story done to zoom in one a single character & setting. Also written for a Flora fan in July 08 who wanted a fic written on her favourite character. Comments appreciated. Thanks.