Dinner and a Show
The nondescript vehicle rolled up to the kerb, right in front of Erika, and she opened the door, sliding right into Nightmare’s lap. The yellow-eyed man lowered his mouth to hers as they kissed passionately. As one hand wrapped around her slim waist, the other knocked against the partition, informing the driver that it was time to go.
When they were done making out, Erika slid off his lap, down beside Nightmare, and fastened her seatbelt. Their hands were still intertwined. The car in which they were seated had already hit the highway. “Where in Osaka are we going?”
“It’s a hole in the wall, really,” Nightmare murmured. Darkness rolled off Erika in waves, making it even harder to peek into their car. “It serves some fantastic Chinese food, though. The owners have lived in Japan since the twenty-first century.”
“Yamato in all but name.”
“They retain enough Chinese-ness to cook a mean lo mein.” Nightmare pulled her closer to him, their arms touching. “I still can’t believe Desolator let you go.”
“Mm.” Erika raised her mouth to his again, then continued when they had disengaged. “He’s loosening up. This is how it always is. Discipline is highest right after we arrive and right before we leave.”
Nightmare sketched a thick, black line in the air. “A V-shaped graph?”
“Just so.”
The sun had begun to set when they’d left Kyoto, and by the time they reached Osaka, night had well and truly fallen. Nightmare’s driver escorted them both into the restaurant, which was in a distinctly crime-ridden part of the city. Beneath a dilapidated awning, crimson dragons leered out at the street, flanked by bloated lanterns illuminating a dank passageway into the bowels of the building. Waitresses in cheongsams guided them to a private room set aside just for the two of them. No sooner had they seated themselves than the food started to come out. The lights dimmed, and one of the waitresses lit a candle. Erika giggled at it, momentarily feeling every inch the foolish teenager. “This takes me back.”
“Look how far we’ve come,” Nightmare replied. He gestured at themselves – him in a finely-tailored suit, her in a sweater and jeans. A far cry from the jumpsuits and shaved heads of their youth. “I promised you a candlelit dinner… and I meant it.”
Erika nodded; squeezed his hand. “I knew you did. I always knew.”
They ate for a few minutes in comfortable silence before Nightmare spoke again. “How long do I have you for?” At Erika’s surprised stare, he clarified. “Surely Desolator has some sort of curfew for you. In my experience, travelling murderers tend to exercise strict discipline.”
“It’s not a curfew.” Erika shifted in her seat. “It’s just… we’re not exactly low-profile. People already know we’re in Kyoto, and we can’t afford to be clocked. It’s easier to coordinate this way.” The word reminded her of her childhood, spent in grey, echoing facilities, shuttling from one agony to the next. She was desperate to avoid the association.
“Of course,” Nightmare said dubiously. “Not a curfew.” He clicked his chopsticks together. “I’m just worried about you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Don’t I know it.” A pause. “When’s your contract ending? I might hire you.”
Erika slapped at him playfully. “You don’t have to pay me to spend time with you. Besides, you could just pay me instead of the Five. I only get about a tenth of the money.”
Nightmare blinked. “So little?”
“It’s not too bad. If everything were split evenly, I’d get a fifth.”
“Still. You seem… underappreciated.” A tendril of solid darkness reached across the table to top up Erika’s tea. “You’re not getting paid your full worth. And Desolator isn’t as fearsome as he once was. Shouldn’t he make some concessions to the younger generation? He’s made his money.”
“You sly dog,” Erika teased. “Are you trying to recruit me? How unsubtle.”
“I could take better care of you,” Nightmare persisted. “And Mercury, I suppose.” He rolled his eyes at Erika’s snigger, and the two of them dug into the rest of their food.
They revisited the subject only after several meandering conversations. Nightmare was the one who brought it up, and Erika sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been in the Five for a while. I may be growing too comfortable in my position.”
The way she said it made Nightmare’s ears (which were slightly pointed) prick up. “Complacency?”
Erika waved a hand. “No, no, no. It’s not that. Just a…”
“You can trust me.”
“Desolator might be on the lookout for new talent.”
“New talent…” Nightmare snapped his fingers. “You think he’s trying to replace you?”
“Of course not,” Erika retorted, but she didn’t sound sure. “We’ve gotten stuck with a Dai-Ichi Ikkai brat, and Desolator’s been asking after his classmate. Might just be because she’s American. And has a way with guns.” She took a sip of her tea. “Or so I’ve heard.”
Without needing to ask one another whether they were ready to leave, the two of them rose to their feet, their conversation momentarily put on hold. A cheongsam-clad waitress guided them out; the restaurant fell silent as they left. Erika snuck a glance at Nightmare as they passed by row after row of silent diners, most of them hard-looking men, their gazes stuck to their plates. Waiting for the predator to pass.
“Well,” Nightmare said, once they were back in the car, “if Desolator ever decides to boot you out, you’ll always have a place with me.” He stopped to think. “And Mercury, of course.”
“Mercury is useful,” Erika muttered. “He shoots his mouth off too much, but he knows how to follow orders. And he knows how to kill. That’s all you really need in this sort of profession.”
“He’s restless. You think I’d be able to tamp down his wanderlust by keeping him moving from one end of Honshu to the other?”
Erika’s hesitant silence told him all he needed to know.
“Never mind,” Nightmare murmured. He reached for Erika’s hand and held it tight. “We’ve half an hour until I drop you off. Let’s make the most of it.”
Eugene sat at his desk, fingers interlaced as he stared at his desktop. Behind him, the Kyoto skyline (such as it was) soared into the distance. It was a pleasant enough view, but hardly the skyscraper-studded vista that he remembered so fondly. Every once in a while, he’d top up his tumbler of brandy and take a short sip from it.
This was his office as opposed to his bedroom. Instead of a dozen screens, he only had eight, stacked one on top of the other in a rough two-up-four-across arrangement. He had an appointment, yet as he checked his watch, it was beginning to occur to him that his counterpart might be late. He was on the verge of calling Mercy to cancel his appointment when there was a knock on his door.
“Enter!”
Mercy appeared. There was a cowering man beside her, at least a foot shorter. (Mercy was a very tall woman, almost statuesque in her impassiveness.) Eugene rose to his feet. “Ah! Odaira-san. Come in, come in.”
The cowering man advanced a few steps before flinging himself headlong at Eugene’s slippered feet. Eugene looked at him in disgust as he sobbed before glancing up at Mercy, perplexed. “Mr Kurtz,” he blubbered, “I have failed you. I have disgraced myself. Please accept my apologies…”
“Please, Odaira-san, rise.” Eugene seated himself behind his desk as Mercy helped Odaira-san up and none-too-gently forced him into a nearby seat. “Mercy, I can take it from here.” At Mercy’s questioning glance, Eugene sighed. “Mercy.”
Mercy left. Eugene retrieved another tumbler and filled it with brandy, sliding it across the table. “Odaira-san, please have some brandy. I hear it calms the nerves.”
Odaira-san fumbled with the tumbler and drank it in one gulp, failing to notice how Eugene’s eye twitched at his discomposure. “Mr Kurtz –”
“Enough.”
Eugene stood up, his lank-haired shadow looming over the Japanese man. “Odaira-san, you promised me that the man with the golden dragon was the man to bet on. Now he is in custody, awaiting execution for all we know – and as a man who prides himself on being omniscient, not knowing rankles, Odaira-san. It really does.”
“Mr Kurtz –”
Eugene hushed him harshly. “I talk. You listen.” He began to pace, but not before pouring Odaira-san another tumbler. “You know, I understand your plight, Odaira-san. I really do. You managed to accomplish an awful lot. You were able to lure another Dai-Ichi Ikkai magnate onboard, and you helped to ignite a bloody conflict with the Sahugins.” He wheeled around. “But winning a battle is not the same thing as winning a war. We are fighting a war, Odaira-san, and you may well have lost it for us.”
Odaira-san opened his mouth, but the look in Eugene’s eye silenced him.
“No, Odaira-san. There’s no need to defend yourself.” Eugene’s glare softened, and he turned, his back silhouetted against the setting sun. “Circumstances outside of your control resulted in this unfavourable outcome. Shiketsu, Shiketsu, Shiketsu… it all comes back to them, doesn’t it?” He dragged a finger over the window, and Odaira-san gaped as it came alive with holograms. Architectural blueprints of the campus stadium; text, images and audiovisual content capered and cavorted across the glass.
“One-way mirror,” Eugene said, turning back to grace Odaira-san with a smile. “Nice, isn’t it.” He turned back to the glass. “We’ve got a nice little bomb brewing in Shiketsu,” he called, beckoning Odaira-san over, and the Japanese man obliged, squinting at a blue-haired boy with dark circles under his eyes. “It’s a delicate situation, but if we manage to set him off just right, we’ll wipe a dozen pieces off the board.” A chart depicting a classroom appeared, followed by an overlay of a nuclear bomb going off. The twenty-four faces in the classroom grew dim and colourless, fading to greyscale.
“That,” Eugene said, stabbing one finger at a grinning blonde-haired boy in the back of the class, sending colour flooding back into his cheeks, “is the architect of our misfortune, Odaira-san. That is Inigo Myoga. It is he who beheaded our golden dragon.” A few more faces lit up, but Eugene paid them no mind. “This boy,” he told Odaira-san, “is a problem.”
Odaira-san nodded fervently. “You want him dead? I can do that, Mr Kurtz. I can do that.”
Eugene shook his head, almost paternally. “No, Odaira-san. I don’t want him dead.” He patted the Japanese man on the shoulder companionably, then laid one of his fingers against the other man’s neck.
“You, on the other hand…”
Odaira-san flinched, but it was not powerful enough to detach Eugene’s hand.
“I thank you for giving me the chance to monologue,” Eugene said, as Odaira-san’s eyelids fluttered. “I usually only monologue to Mercy, but between you and me, I’ve been getting the sense that she’s starting to get tired of it. How fortunate that you popped up.” He smiled. “Do you know why they call me Pax, Odaira-san? Well, for one thing, my organization stands for peace. For a single, monolithic order, standing astride this world and the next. No more petty, ego-driven conflict; only mutual accommodation and the greater good.”
He dropped into a crouch as Odaira-san began to sink towards the floor, his legs folding beneath him in slow motion. “But I chose this name because I am a man of peace, Odaira-san. But not that kind of peace. You see, I grant those whom I touch the peace of death.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Or, well, something close enough to that. You should be honoured, Odaira-san. Usually, when I kill someone with my bare hands, I just graze their collarbone, and that’s that. I suppose I’m in a monologuing mood today.”
Odaira-san’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Eugene removed his hand from the man’s neck, then patted him on the cheek. The rings on his hand twinkled as they sealed the Japanese man’s fate. His heartbeat, already slowed to a crawl, ground to a resounding halt.
Eugene stood up and finished his brandy.