"Aw, man, am I spent. Ah…welllllll…and so is my wallet, I guess. Heh."

The Festival of the Union brought all manner of denizens from across Gamindustri to sample its attractions, and Jake hardly considered himself any different from the tourists swarming the fairgrounds. Well, maybe there was one difference – he wasn't just here for the festivities.

"So…what do you think of Leanbox?"

"Ah, now that's a heck of a question, Milly. I think I'm still gonna need some time to think on that. Still a whole lot to see, you know?"

Lots of people scoffed at the idea of online dating. That's what he called it, anyway. They'd just make fun of him even harder if he said he met his girlfriend through a game. Or maybe they'd ask which game it was, and then he'd have to answer some really uncomfortable questions. He generally tried not to think about how he could get locked up for a hobby that didn't seem to harm anyone – but, then again, some of the people he'd run across online were so shady that he quickly learned how to turn a blind eye.

Milly – or Mildred, as her parents had named her – gave a chuckle, moving her gaze across the crowd all around the park bench they were currently sitting on. "This is the first time I've been old enough to go out on my own during a Festival here at Leanbox. The city's always bustling with people, but…this is something else." She caught herself, a smile forming on her face as she turned her attention back to Jake. "Well, I suppose I'm not exactly alone…"

Mildred. An ugly name for a beautiful person. It didn't sound nearly as pretty as "Lunara," which was the handle he'd first learned to address her by – it'd been more convenient than typing out "Darkm00nSlayerLunara," at least. Fast forward a few weeks, and they'd found themselves in a budding relationship. When she suggested he come to Leanbox for the Festival to meet her and some mutual friends, he'd nearly had a panic attack at the very idea. Really, he was just glad he wasn't sweating bullets being around a girl he'd only met in person just a few days ago.

Jake let out a startled breath when he felt something touch his hand, which he snatched away by reflex.

"Oh, come on. There's no use in playing 'hard to get' now, y'know." Milly's smile had only grown at her friend's evasive behavior. She moved her own hand closer, settling it upon the boy's thigh.

"Y-You shouldn't be so forward! Espe…especially in front of so many people!"

"Oh? Why not?" Milly had cocked up an eyebrow, making little attempt to hide her intentions. She leaned over to put their faces within a dangerously close distance. Her breaths were hot, but that wasn't exactly what was causing Jake to break out in a sweat. "Are Lastation boys not into girls or something?"

Jake did his best to slide away, putting his hands up defensively. "No-n-n-n-no! That's…not what I mean! It's just…it's bad to do things like that in public. Very, very bad." He scanned his eyes over the packed fairgrounds, noting that the crowd had grown a little thinner in their area. Across the stony path sat a bench much like the one they had claimed for use. A woman dressed in an attire that was probably way more formal – and expensive – than necessary was seated there. And she seemed to be staring right at them with an awfully serious look on her face, leaning forward with her chin resting on one hand.

It didn't take long for Milly to find what he was looking at. "Oh…" The girl's jaw hung open for a moment before she suddenly sprung to an upright posture that no mother or teacher could possibly scold. "That's…uh…the Duchess. Of Leanbox. I think. I know I've seen her on TV a few times before."

The sound that came from Jake could best be described as a muted screech. "Th…th…the Duchess?!" he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "What's she doing here?!"

The woman must've realized that she was finally noticed, as she raised her head from her hand and gave a little wave. Frankly, the hint of a smile that had formed on her lips made the gesture seem oddly demure for someone of such stature.

"Oh! Oh no!" Jake had placed his hands on either side of his head at this point. "I'm done for!"

Ah, yes. The flame of youth, they called it – whoever "they" was supposed to be. Clearly, this girl was dead-set on sinking her claws into the poor, unsuspecting young man. It was hard to deny the effectiveness of such a tactic – Relera had used it herself at least once, although that had been under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol…probably. Then again, some people, such as this boy who was apparently of the "please don't touch me" type, just couldn't get the hint. How sad. Was that how people raised their kids on the mainland? No wonder they were facing an impending population shortage.

At this rate, we're going to have to start censoring handholding. That does feel like something Kei would push, actually…

The would-be couple seemed to have become rather alarmed when they realized they were in the presence of one of the most important people in all of Gamindustri. Oops. She hadn't really meant to stare, but absent-mindedness combined with a seriously broken sleep schedule wasn't exactly working in her favor.

Why does this have to be Leanbox's year?

Official policy mandated that the Festival of the Union, an annual celebration, take place in a different location every year. What the law didn't state was exactly where it had to be held, with the exception of Planeptune, which was always exempt.

The Goddess needs Her beauty sleep twenty-four-seven, I suppose. Lucky brat.

Unofficial policy had designated a rotation among the three minor lands of Gamindustri – each year, a different nation-state would hold the Festival, typically within the local capital city, until all had had their turn. And thus, fate had conspired to deprive Relera of sleep just when she needed it most.

Not that she'd be sleeping soundly even in the best of conditions.

Why hasn't she shown up yet?

A quick check of the phone followed – an essential tool for any denizen of the Goddess' domain.

Oh. Still ten minutes until it's time. Or was it an hour from now?

"Hey!"

A voice called from the side, drawing Relera's attention. There, a shape could be seen making its way through the crowd.

"Ahem…I mean…ah…well met, Your Grace." Still short of breath after what must've been quite a run, Falcom gave a deep, respectful bow that belied her plain appearance. A single drop of sweat fell from her brow to the ground.

Relera waved a hand dismissively. "No need for any of that." She gave a quick glance to either side before adding, "It'll just make it easier for us to be noticed."

Not that wearing the official attire of the office makes you noticeable, hm?

"Oh, good grief," said Relera. "No need to get smarmy."

Falcom blinked as if confused. "'Smarmy?' I…I'm not sure what I said that can be interpreted that way…Y-Your Grace."

A sigh came from Relera. "Whatever." She patted the space next to her on the bench. "Have a seat, would you? I don't bite."

The agent stood motionless for a moment. "You…don't breathe fire either, right?"

"Just sit down already."

The irritation in Relera's voice was impossible to miss, and thus Falcom decided that she should probably comply as quickly as possible. The metal surface of the bench wasn't too uncomfortable, but sitting in the presence of a Duchess was a different story. No matter how many times Falcom mingled with the rich and powerful, she never seemed to know how to fit in. And the crowd certainly didn't help – the fledgling agent in her said that having so many people around provided anonymity, but it really felt more like every single pair of eyes in the area was looking her way.

"So…what are they like?"

The question struck Falcom as all sorts of odd. Had she been called here to this public place to discuss such a thing? Why was this Duchess treating a highly classified mission as if it was a casual conversation piece? "I-I'm not sure who you might be referring to, Your Grace."

"Oh, don't be a tease. Just a little hint?"

There was an undercurrent of something in her manner that Falcom hadn't seen in a very long time – excitement, and maybe just a little awe. It reminded Falcom of how people reacted whenever she would off-handedly mention one of many anecdotes relating to her past adventures. Of course, the woman sitting next to her was hardly some village fishwife looking for an interesting tale to pass the time. "I believe any relevant knowledge should be covered in my reports."

"Yes, yes, I've read the reports. I've read so very many reports, and yet still I hear people all the time, pointing and laughing, mumbling to one another about how very little I know. So, dear agent, I wish to hear directly from you. What are you speaking of behind my back?"

A stab of fear as cold as ice went through Falcom's spine. The woman's interest seemed more than genuine, and yet…Was this a setup? Was this person an imposter, even? She needed to make a decision – could she trust this woman? All of her instincts screamed at her to flee, but her duties as an agent kept her pinned in place, right in the crosshairs that were no doubt pointed at her. "I haven't had much personal contact with them myself. A-And, of course, I'm speaking strictly about the past. I have had zero direct contact with them since their arrival."

The Duchess raised a rather suggestive brow. "And?"

"I am afraid that I can add little more. Your Grace."

"Oh, come now. So uptight! I figured you Guild types would be used to dancing around royalty – twirling us around your little finger, as it were." A chuckle came from her. "Or does it bother you that much to sit next to a pretty lady?" She clapped her hands together with sudden energy, her expression turning sly as she slid a little closer to Falcom. "Ah. But of course! You've done your research, haven't you?" She leaned forward as if to wrap her arm around Falcom's shoulders, but she stopped short, propping her hand on the back of the bench. "I should've known, hm? I'm an open book to you and your Guild, aren't I? I bet you know all about my…eccentricities…the scandals..." She paused, pressing a finger to her lips. "Mm…maybe even…that one time with the yo-yo and the pineapple?"

Falcom did her best to slide away, even knowing that it would likely cause offense. "I—I have no idea what you're talking about, Your Grace."

Relera laughed again, this time more heartily, moving back away from the agent. "Not much of a joker, are you?" Her laugh ended in an amused sigh. "That's just too bad."

I suppose it really doesn't always work, hm?

Falcom's expression had turned stony. "My apologies, Your Grace. The Guild prefers that its agents maintain a professional relationship with their contacts."

"Hah! Don't let the high and mighty stick-in-the-muds of the world drag you down. Just because you're a cog in the machine doesn't mean you have to act like it. I mean, you're still you, aren't you?" The Duchess pointed a finger at Falcom to emphasize her words. Relera slowly lowered her hand when there was no response, her smile fading. "Fine. I guess we'll get down to business, then."

Falcom's brow rose in acknowledgement, but she remained silent.

Relera reached a hand into what must've been a pocket concealed in her dress, retrieving a small pouch of some kind, tied off at the top by a red ribbon. "Here. You'll be needing this."

The agent's brow rose further when the pouch was placed into her own hand. The material beneath her fingers felt odd indeed – covered in a pattern of hexagons, the shiny, bumpy surface was reminiscent of artificial snakeskin. It was almost painfully cold, much like the chill of snow upon skin, but with a far deeper bite than any frost could hope to achieve, bringing the sensation of a nauseating ache that flowed up to her elbow. Even stranger, she could swear that the object was pulsing, as if a beating, diseased heart lay within. "What is this?"

"Don't open it," Relera said, raising a finger much like a parent warning her child. "Not unless you have to."

Despite the alluring call of curiosity, Falcom had hardly planned on investigating the pouch's contents – whatever it was, it proved to be unnatural, and quite possibly deadly. She'd handled poisons before, as reluctant as she was to do so, but this seemed far beyond any mere toxin.

Unless…

Falcom's eyes widened as realization hit her. "This wasn't part of the mission parameters, Your Grace. It is to be strictly observational, so I was briefed."

"Well, then there's been a change to your parameters, hasn't there?"

That same fearful chill from before struck through Falcom, a sensation that never faltered in its terribleness. Her hand began to shake, and she was forced to place the pouch down on the bench. It seemed that merely following orders was no longer enough. Did she dare disobey a request from a Duchess? And if the request entailed something as sinister as she thought…

Falcom shook her head. "No. This goes against protocol. You'll need to consult with the Guild before having this kind of change approved." Despite the forcefulness of her words, she was trembling with a potent mix of fear and fury. Before she could stop herself, she was standing up from the bench. "And you'll need to find yourself another agent, too."

"Sit down."

A moment passed, Falcom's lips pressed into a tight line as she considered the command. She had let her emotions get the better of her. Slowly, she lowered herself back to the bench, her gaze firmly focused on the grass. "You can't force me to obey. It would be easy to report this to the Guild. And the Oracle." Falcom almost hit herself for letting her mouth run on its own again. Yes, she could report this request – and she could just as easily be removed from the picture before she had a chance to do so.

"I know that, dummy. So let me say it again: don't use it unless you have to."

Falcom turned her head to face Relera, examining the Duchess' face for any possible clues. She seems so sincere. But being gullible has never ended in my favor, has it? The agent took in a deep breath to give herself a few more moments to think. She's a tough one to crack. I can't read her at all. And those red eyes…creepy. Finally, Falcom nodded, her own eyes unblinking. "Alright. I'll take it. But I can't promise that I'll ever use it."

"Good. Consider it a Plan B. A plan that officially doesn't exist, yes?"

Another stiff nod was given as Falcom gritted her teeth. She moved to rise to her feet, but she was stopped by a touch upon her shoulder.

"Try not to get yourself killed. That one's an order, by the way. Oh, and take a vacation when this is all over – a nice long one, maybe in Fukoka or something. I've been there once. Nice place, if you like tans."

"Is that an order as well, Your Grace?"

"Eh. No. Just a bonus objective for S-ranking the mission. Triple S-rank for bringing home a boyfriend."