ELEMENT [M]

ONE OF ONE​

AGATKA

The woman slowly opens her eyes, her dark hair covering her face. She blinks to the clear the crud from her eyes and scratches at the base of her neck. It takes her a few seconds to recognize the bleach-white walls of her brand-new fancy apartment, and remind herself that she's in Tokyo now. Back home. Where she belongs.

AGATKA WAKE AM HUNGRY!

The woman grumbles to herself, rubbing her eyes again. Sasha is at the foot of her bed, staring down at her with her amber eyes. She stares back, blinking slowly. The scizor clicks her claws very quickly, tapping out an audible message in Russian morse code for her.

WANT FOOD VERY HUNGRY AGATKA LISTEN

"I knoooow," the woman responds, placing a cotton mask on, barely covering her broken face. "I know you want food, Sasha. I gotta get up first."

AGATKA MAKE FOOD?

The scizor tilts her head, seeming to visibly lighten up.

"Yeah, what else am I good for? " she jokes, sitting up from her bed. The scizor makes some sort of cheerful noise, clicking out a constant tapping of 'AGATKA', and runs out of the room, towards the kitchen. The woman shakes her head in amusement and disbelief.

'Agatka' wasn't anything close to what her real name was. Originally, Sasha called her what her uncle called her when the woman lived with him and his wife:

Whore.

It wasn't her fault. In one of her uncle's better moments, he told her that scizors like Sasha have the intelligence of a five-year-old child, the smartest bug-pokemon alive. Had to do with the minerals that made up their carapace or some bullshit the old man told her. Their intelligence made them both hard to train and easy to train. The mantis just repeated what he had yelled at the woman more than once, without any knowledge of it being wrong.

However, she doesn't know how 'whore' became Agatka, but after they had left home for Moscow under… bad circumstances, the scizor only called her Agatka. No more 'whore'. Any attempts to ask her how she decided on that name, especially why she chose a Polish spelling of the name, proved futile, with only a response of "DON'T KNOW" in return. Not that she complained. Agatka was perfectly fine because it was far, far away from her real name and real identity. Perfect.

Speaking of that, she thinks, as she slides into the kitchen, she needs a new name for Japan. She doesn't feel like Agatka is necessary anymore, like it's a remnant of an extremely bad time in her life. It'd be nice to use her real name, sure, but with those skeezy-looking fuckers from the competition tailing her now, she doesn't want to risk it. But… what will it be? She tries to think up some good names, but she comes up blank.

The woman shakes her head, turning towards the fridge. For the next few minutes, she busies herself with getting breakfast ready, cutting up chicken and frying an egg on her stovetop, smiling and singing happily to herself.

She's missed this. A lot. Back in Moscow, when she lived with Nikita in their cheap-ass Soviet-style apartment, she'd mostly settled for kielbasa and cheese on white toast, before the two of them ran off for work. He'd go to work at a local 'Matrix' supermarket, the woman would go to her desk job at a natural history museum. Crappy jobs, sure, but they kept food on the table and their lights on. Now…

Distantly, she hears her ringtone go off, an upbeat enka song her father loves to sing to. The woman walks back to her room quickly, and snatches up her phone, placing it between her shoulder and ear.

"Hello?" she asks, her voice raspy with sleep.

"Good morning, little mouse," Nikita chirps, and the woman smiles at the familiar nickname, "I'm assuming it's morning there. Is it?"

"It is," she says softly, moving towards the kitchen, "I'm actually making breakfast now."

"What is it?"

"Omurice,"

"What is that?" Nikita says, a tone of curiosity in his voice

"An omelette over chicken rice, drizzled with ketchup," she describes, and Nikita makes a humming noise in response, "my dad would make it for me when I was little."

"Mm," he says, and the woman imagines that he's rubbing his nose with his index finger, a habit of his, "speaking of him, have you visited him at all? You are a lot closer now..."

"No," she sighs sadly, twirling her hair, "it's better that we don't see each other. Especially since now that they know…"

"I know," Nikita says soothingly, and the woman sighs out of her nose. "I just think I would be good for you. You seem to be talking a lot about him, recently."

"I just… see him a lot more now, Nikita. With his new job and everything. It's really hard, because I know he's not, like, deadbeat. He loves my mom, was always there for us, and he'll be ecstatic to see me… But…"

"I know, dear. Try your best to keep your head up. Everything will smooth itself out in the end. They'll leave us alone when they can't get what they want."

"Enough about my problems," the woman sighs, running her hands through her hair, "what about you? How's England? Meet anyone new?"

"It's going well!" Nikita says, his tone upbeat, "I got a job as a barista at a local cafe, while I wait to hear from the colleges I've applied to…"

"That's good," the woman hums, nodding her head, "better than me, at least."

Nikita laughs, before pausing. There's a short, awkward pause.

"I'm also seeing someone."

"Oh?" the woman says, her eyebrows raising, "Who?"

"He's from work. His name's Kavi," Nikita explains, slowly, as if he's worrying that she'll be upset, "He reminds me a lot of you."

"How so?"

"Well, he's very mysterious, like you were at first."

"So you're looking for that trait in guys now, huh?" the woman jokes, drizzling ketchup over her plate of omurice. "I did have an effect on you!"

Nikita laughs, snorting in between breaths.

"Kavi's really quiet and reserved when you first get to know him," he says, cheerfully, "but when you get closer to him, he's just like a big teddy bear. All cuddly. You'd like him."

The woman smiles, rubbing her eyes. Pride rushes through her at his excitement. Good for him.

"You're lucky, Nikita," she sniffs, looking over at the blank television. "I met a cute girl last night, but she almost maced me."

"Was it the mask?"

"Yeah, I chose a new one that wasn't… ideal. Very pretty, but…"

"Let me guess," he says, amusement palpable in his voice. "you chose a mask with like, a demon's face on it."

"...You could say that."

Nikita sighs, and clicks his tongue chidingly at her.

"Next time, you should text me the picture of the mask before you buy it," he says, and the woman sighs, "it'll save you a lot of trouble."

"Yeah, but we're not in Moscow anymore. By the time I get to Donki, you'll be asleep."

"'Donki'?" Nikita asks incredulously.

"Don Quijote. Weird department store," she says, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sasha approach, "it's like Matrix on cocaine. Three floors full of the most random-ass shit in existence."

"Oh boy," Nikita groans, "I'd hate working there… All that crap to s-"

WHO PHONE?

"Nikita," the woman says, looking over at the scizor, "just Nikita."

I SEE

Sasha bobs her head in a nod, before walking back, towards the couch. She sprawls out on it, leads spread apart, and the woman snorts.

"Was that Sasha talking to you?"

"Uh huh," she says, as she walks over to the fridge, grabbing a chicken breast, and a massive container of superworms, "listen. I gotta go. I need to eat breakfast and feed Sasha and Layka."

"Oh, well, I'm glad you're doing well," Nikita says, his melancholy audible. "but if they contact you again, call me straight away, alright? Two heads are better than one."

"Right," the woman says softly, "bye-bye Nikita."

"Bye, little mouse."

Click.

The woman stares at her phone for a few moments, unable to move.

If this were normal, like in the movies, she should feel angry or miserable that Nikita is moving on so quickly after their time in Moscow, but she doesn't. Instead, she's glad. She's fucking ecstatic! Good for him for finding someone who actually could love him, like he deserves!

WANT FOOD AGKATA

The woman shakes her head as if dislodging something from her brain. She walks over to the kitchen counter, and slices up the chicken into halves, and quarters. She scrapes it all into a bowl and sets it on the floor. A few seconds later, she hears claws scratching on the wood flooring as a tan wolf approaches her, looking up at her with baby blue eyes.

"It's all yours, Layka," the woman gestures with a sweep of her arms, "enjoy."

Layka sniffs up at her, before sniffing at her food. Quickly, she chows down, tearing at the meat with quick jolts of her head. The woman watches for a moment, before grabbing her omurice and Sasha's superworms, and walking to the dining room. Layka follows her to her seat, dragging her bowl with her, and Sasha sits in front of her and grabs the container. The scizor slices it open, and begins to feast.

The room is silent for a few minutes as the three of them eat before Sasha clicks out a message:

YOU SEE NO FACE GIRL AGAIN?

"Hrm?" the woman says, picking at the remains of her rice.

NO FACE GIRL

"'No face girl…' The girl from last night? With the mask?"

YES. YOU SEE AGAIN?

"Oh, I don't know Sasha," the woman sighs, resting her chin on her palm, "I don't think she likes me."

WHY?

"I scared her because of what I was wearing. She thought I was going to hurt her."

YOU WEREN'T

"I know I wasn't," the woman says, rubbing the bridge of her nose, Layka lies her head across her owner's lap, looking up at her, "but… To her, I looked scary. A masked lady with a scizor doesn't get you a lot of friends, especially that late at night."

TRY AGAIN

Sasha taps impatiently, hitting the table with her pincer.

"I will, I will," the woman groans, before looking up at Sasha and narrowing her eyes, "why do you care?"

LIKE HER. SWEET GIRL.

The woman rolls her eyes and shrugs. It's better than Sasha hating her, and trying to fight her on sight. And… she sort of understands why.

Half of her face was covered by that cotton mask, and yet, she'd been immediately drawn to her. Maybe it was because she sort of looked like that idol in her magazine, Mizuki Shiro-something, how her eyes looked or whatever. Usually, those AKB48 girls freaked the woman out, most of them had this creepy innocence to them, with photoshoots or music videos of them wearing school uniforms, or getting into pillow fights. Stuff no adult does. It made the woman want to pull down the blinds while watching it like she'd be humiliated or arrested if she was seen with the video on her computer. At least in Russia, when she gave in to her base urges, the models looked like adults. Here… they look like teenagers, barely grown up.

However, that Mizuki girl from the magazine seemed more mature, like an actual adult. Sure, she was smiling childishly to the camera, but she wasn't dressed like a schoolgirl, more like a normal woman. Jean shorts instead of pleated skirts, simple grey t-shirts instead of the sailor suit. The woman actually found it sort of endearing, how personal she acted with the camera. She understood why that magazine sold well, why it was the only copy left. It gave you the illusion that you were the person she was looking back at, with her cheery smile, that you were the one that made her that happy. It filled her with a warm, fuzzy feeling (amongst the normal hot feelings that arose from seeing an attractive woman half-naked) that soothed something painful and blue in her heart.

So, the woman ignored that nagging voice that told her to not be overt about her… preference and she bought the magazine. She remembered the rush of adrenaline and anxiety sitting awkwardly at the base of her belly, churning painfully as the cashier tried to joke with her. That's the difference between countries, she thinks, if she'd been this stupid in Russia, she would've been either humiliated for it or taken outside and then been beaten until her face looked even worse than before. Here…

The woman tries to distract herself from her thoughts, running her hands down her face. If she thinks about Russia, she'll just be standing here for the next hour. She's in a different cultural environment now, but that's part of why she came. That's why they both left. And she just has to adapt, be like the reeds instead of like an oak tree.

After cleaning her dishes, she grabs the offending mask of Mahakala, it's wide eyes glaring at her. It's still rather pretty, but now, she sees why she shouldn't wear it. The voice in her head screams at her for being so fucking obtuse, overlooking other people's feelings for her own. Idiot, idiot, idiot, the voice chimes, no wonder she doesn't like you. The woman grimaces, and puts down the mask, running towards the bathroom.

She looks at herself in the mirror, examining her face. With the cotton mask, she notes, you couldn't see most of her scarring. However, two scars, one across her nose bridge and one diagonal across her forehead, are visible, despite her best efforts to hide them with her bangs. She groans, knowing that she'll be unable to hide them without severely limiting her vision or putting band-aids on them, so she just decides to keep them visible. Still, she feels ill looking at herself, stomach twisting into knots.

After a hot shower and chugging a can of ginger ale to try and ease her nausea, the woman is ready to leave for Donki, wearing her ratty black Adidas jacket, and dark shorts. Sasha practically bolts over to her, hissing happily to herself. The woman turns back to look at her lycanroc, who is looking at the two of them.

"You be good, okay?" she says, gesturing with her pointer finger. "I'll be back in about an hour, then I'll walk you."

Layka sniffs and walks over to the couch. She jumps up on it and curls up on the pillows. The woman snorts, before slipping through her apartment door and locking it. The two walk through the apartment's pale yellow halls, feet clicking on the linoleum flooring.

The elevator ride down is shockingly silent, Sasha is too busy staring at her reflection on the metal walls to ask the woman any questions about where they're going, and what things are. Sasha is odd, in that she never attempts to attack her reflection, only looks at it. The woman wonders if Sasha knows it's her own reflection looking back at her, not some other scizor. She thinks it's possible, but the woman knows no way of testing that.

She's taken from her thoughts by the elevator chime as it reaches the first floor, and they step out into the lobby. Granite walls span out in front of them, greenish with flecks of black and white, with a wood desk towards the side. The receptionist, an older woman, is sitting at the desk, the newspaper in her hands obscuring her face. As the mask-wearing woman approaches, she lowers her newspaper, glancing at her with round eyeglasses.

"Good morning, Ms. Nakano," the receptionist smiles, setting the newspaper down, "taking Sasha for a walk?"

"Sort of," the other woman sighs, adjusting her mask nervously. "I'm going to the Don Quijote in Akihabara to get some things I forgot last night."

"Oh, the place under that girl group theater?"

The woman nods, and Sasha makes a low humming noise out of boredom.

"You know, I see some of those idol girls around this part of Shibuya," the receptionist says, the smile fading from her face, "their studio is a few paces from here… Some of them are only thirteen! Can you imagine doing all that at thirteen, Ms. Nakano?"

"No," she says plainly, "I was ugly and insufferably annoying at that age, so I'd probably get kicked out in a matter of seconds."

The receptionist laughs, but there's a layer of worry to it. Her eyes stare up at the woman, her eyebrows arching upwards.

"Don't say stuff like that! I'm sure you were cute enough, and you're not annoying at all!"

The woman nods, the mask covering her sad smile. Stop joking like that, her mind snaps, leave it to yourself.

"Maybe so," she says softly, stretching her arms, "still. It's not the job for me. I wouldn't like the press breathing down my back."

By chance, her eyes drift down to the newspaper lying open on the desk. The face of her father looks back at her, a relatively young man, silver glasses resting across his nose. His dark hair is longer now, reaching about to his ears. He's smiling, a familiar smile that the woman knows deeply, feeling a warm feeling resting in her chest.

The woman wonders if her mother still does his hair when he gets up in the morning, teasing him with a smile. If she makes him his simple breakfast of eggs and toast in the gigantic residence they live in now. She wonders if the geezer is still lying to them whenever they call, so he can collect her monthly allowance. Saying that she's busy, can't pick up the phone right now, but she's doing just fine!

He must be. They'd be searching for her if he wasn't, right?

...Right?

"Are you alright, Ms. Nakano?" the receptionist asks, looking at her in concern.

The woman shakes her head, almost dismissively.

"I-I'm fine," she says, breathing in and out, heart thumping in her chest, "Have a nice day."

Before she can hear the receptionist's response, the woman slips out of the revolving doors

Shibuya in the morning is already bustling with swarms of people, heading back and forth, to work, school, or wherever. The woman really didn't fucking care about any of that, the only thoughts in her mind being of her father, and his new job.

When the news of this new position of his first reached her, she was sitting in a pub in Moscow with her tight-knit group of friends, where the music was always just too loud and the old wood tables too crowded, but the beers were cheap enough for the lot of them. She'd been drinking with her friends, Nikita close by her side, his dark hair curled around his ears and his smile bright, as he held her hand gently under the table.

The woman — her name was Agatka at that time — was slamming down her sixth shot of a cheap whiskey that tasted like gasoline and zoning out from the conversation at her table when Nikita had spoken to her, nudging her shoulder softly.

"Aggie, didn't you live in Japan?" he asked, and her face contorted in confusion.

"Yeah, I did. I was born there, actually," she said, and looked at her then-boyfriend with a smirk, "Why are you asking, Nikita? Wanna brag about your sexy girlfriend?"

"As much as I'd like to… No," Nikita grinned, and gently elbowed her, "but I think you may be interested in what's on TV."

He gestured towards the television that hung in the corner, and the woman glanced over. Russia-24 was blasting on it, loud enough for her to hear over the chatter of the rest of the pub. A dark-haired newsreader looked back at her, a white smile plastered on her face.

"Tonight in Japan, a shocking victory for one of it's newest political parties," she read, and the woman raised her eyebrows as she sipped her whiskey. "Hideaki Takenaka, a member of the newly formed Constitutional Democratic Party, is poised to become Prime Minister of Japan after an unexpected win over the ruling Liberal Democratic Party."

The TV turned to an image of her father grinning, his hand gestured towards the blue rosettes lining the list of the names of his fellow winning party members. Distantly, the woman felt her shaking hands slowly set her shot glass down, as she stared at the TV with wide open eyes.

"The forty-year-old representative of Iwate is the youngest prime minister to take office in the history of Japan," the presenter continued, barely heard over the blood that rushed in the woman's ears, "Takenaka's surprise victory heralds a growing tide of dissatisfaction with the…"

Whatever was said next was hastily ignored by the woman, as she stood up shakily, face pale. She heard Nikita's voice distantly, as if he stood at the edge of the bar, while she ran outside, the bitter Moscow cold greeting her. The woman ran over to the curb, got down on her hands and knees, and hurled into the gutter. Above her, she heard passerby making disparaging remarks or huffing in disgust as she heaved again, tears blurring her vision.

After a few more heaves, she felt a pair of arms lift her up, and she turned her head weakly. Nikita looked at her, his eyebrows turned upwards in concern. The woman coughs weakly.

"Please don't vomit on me," he tries to joke, but there's no laughter in his voice. "I just got this coat."

The woman snorted.

"What the fuck happened, Aggie? You usually hold your booze just fine, so something's obviously wrong…"

The woman sighed sadly and closed her eyes. It was impossible to keep things from Nikita, so it was best for her to tell him now.

"My father's the new Prime Minister of Japan," she slurred, and Nikita's eyes went wide.

"Holy shit, really?"

"Mhm," the woman choked, before sobbing weakly.

"Well, why are you crying, then? That's fuckin' great!" Nikita smiled, before his face fell, "D-did he hurt you?"

The woman shook her head, snot running down her face.

"I can't see him," she sobbed, "I haven't seen him in three-fucking-years, Niki! My uncle told me that if I spoke to him, he'd reveal everything."

"Everything about what?"

"All my family's dirty laundry! They think my father's a bachelor right now, Niki… What would happen if the Japanese public found out he has a illegitimate daughter? When he was twenty-two, no less?"

"Well, now you're away from that old rat-fucker! Why not call?"

"Dad still thinks I live with him… I don't want him to worry about me, and I don't want someone to snoop and find out about me either!"

"Jesus-fucking-Christ, man," he sighed, and looked the woman over, "well, let's get you home. We can talk more there after you calm down."

She remembered nodding, as she walked down the street with him. Her head was slumped against his shoulder, and she remembered thinking, that if they were different people, if their orientations had ended up matching, she'd probably be in love with him.

But of course, they couldn't be. Nothing could be as simple as that, apparently.

The woman returns to reality, rubbing her eyes with her fist. Sasha is looking at her with some form of confusion in her eyes. She sighs, tapping the mantis pokemon's shoulder softly.

"Sorry, let's go," she says almost robotically.

Sasha nods, but steps closer to the woman, never leaving her side. As they walk, Sasha's head swivels around, surveying the crowd that they pass by. She's nervous, looking out for any potential predators in the crowd, and the woman doesn't think she can convince her to relax. The woman doubts that there's going to be any danger, the fact that she's walking with a fucking scizor should be enough to protect her.

Donki is just opening its doors by the time the two of them arrive, after a long and uneventful subway ride, a sleepy older woman guides them into the store with a gaggle of boys her age, maybe older. They're wearing relatively simple clothes of a black shirt and pants, but look pale, with sunken eyes looking at the woman. They reek of a mixture of sweat and what she thinks is onions, and she's suddenly very thankful for the mask blocking some of that stench.

The woman practically darts into the store, speed-walking through the maze of shelves of candy and off-brand clothing until she reaches the stairs.

BAD BAD BAD

Sasha clicks out, and the woman wonders if it's either the smell or the fact that she's moving quickly that upsets her. Whatever it is, the scizor's body language is stiff, and her eyes move rapidly from side to side.

"It's okay, Sasha," the woman smiles, placing a hand on her carapace, "did I scare you?"

YES

Her wings hum softly, and the woman feels a small smile grow on her face. It's hard to imagine an apex predator like a scizor being afraid of anything.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," she hums, patting Sasha's chest.

The scizor makes a happy noise, something between a squeak and a hum, and hops a little. She rushes up the stairs, stops, and looks back at her owner. The woman huffs out of her nose and slowly meanders up the steps.

The third floor feels even tighter than the other floors, costumes of all sorts hanging from the black industrial shelves on hangers. Anything that's not an outfit is thrown onto the shelves rather haphazardly, hats, shoes, masks, anything really.

She imagines that most of the clothes, the school-girl uniforms, the replica AKB48 uniforms, and all that, are mostly for indecent purposes. However, she doesn't want to live in a world where someone uses a bee costume in the bedroom regularly. Or a knock-off Mario costume.

Through some careful shifting and searching, the woman decides on two masks that look less threatening. One is of a young boy with reddish hair over one eye, the other a yellow cat robot from a cartoon from the woman's childhood. Both of them she likes, they cover all of her face without the need for another mask, and she can walk and see what's in front of her. She holds the masks out to a bored Sasha, after deciding on the two.

Sasha has always been very picky about what masks she liked her owner to be in. She found one of her tournament masks shredded beyond use once, on the floor of her Moscow apartment. It was a beautiful one of a latias, torn into plastic shreds. Sasha insisted that Layka "DESTROY UGLY MASK" when asked, even though the way it was cut was impossibly fine for the lycanroc.

So, now she asks Sasha for her approval, so she doesn't waste money on something the scizor will destroy.

Sasha stares at the masks, orange eyes flickering between the choices. Slowly, she reaches her pincher out and taps the cat mask.

LIKE

The woman sets the other mask down and smiles up at the scizor. She rubs her head softly.

"Promise not to destroy this one?"

DID NOT DESTROY. LAYKA DID IT

Sasha growls as if to punctuate her point. It's loud enough to get the few people in the shop looking in their direction, and the woman feels a jolt of panic. 

"Okay, okay. Promise to tell Layka not to destroy it?"

YES

The woman hums, and walks downstairs, towards the checkout. Somehow, there are more sweaty teenagers around this time around, and she plugs her nose. Thankfully, none of them appear to be swarming the cashier, so she doesn't stay in line long.

"What's happening today?" she asks the cashier, the same one from earlier.

"AKB48's supposed to be here for some stupid promotion," she sniffs, rubbing at her eyes, "Those Team B folks or whatever. They don't give us warning until the day before, so I couldn't call out."

"Aw shit, that sucks," the woman huffs, Sasha glancing over at her, "must be a real bitch to be around these kids… You'd think they'd put some fuckin' deodorant on."

The cashier shrugs, watching as the woman slips the mask on after she pays. She opens her mouth to say something before suddenly, there's the loud screech of mic feedback from the speakers. Sasha screams with it, and the woman covers her ears.

There's an older male voice alerting the people in the store that AKB48 is on the eighth floor and are patiently waiting for their devoted fans to see them! The man reads the script in pure monotone, and the woman barks out a laugh at the ridiculous nature of it all.

After a few moments, the feed cuts out, and the boys rush up the stairs, probably to see the girls. Sasha tugs on her owner's jacket impatiently. She sighs and follows her up.

They follow the gaggle of chattering fans up, the woman regretting her decision to follow Sash more with each floor they climb. The boys around her chatter about something, she's too busy blocking it out to pay any real attention. Her throat tugs at the proximity of these people, and she feels her body break into a cold sweat at the thought of something touching her.

When they reach that final floor, the chattering grows louder, and the woman winces at its volume. The eighth floor is swarming with people, it's almost impossible to discern any sort of real decoration in it, other than some sort of food stand towards the end with a bright red sign.

However, the influx of people moving in pushes the two of them forward, and she buries her head in her hands as she stumbles forward. The woman finds herself right by some sort of platform after she uncovers her eyes, and she watches as a group of twelve girls marches onto it. They're all wearing the same uniform, white frilly dresses, with blue ribbons and white high heels, and look frighteningly young.

The receptionist's voice rings in her head as she watches young girl after young girl walk up on stage, to the roar of the crowd, some wearing pigtails, looking like they’re barely a teenager, others walking cautiously to their positions. It makes the woman want to vomit.

Then, she sees her.

A woman, with straight long dark hair down to her chest, walks onto the platform with a bright smile, bright enough for her eyes to turn into crescents, and the mask-wearing woman knows that it's that Mizuki girl. However, there's a different feeling of familiarity in her mind, like they know each other from something. In that moment, she hears Sasha squeal excitedly, and begin to click something out. Through the noise, she strains her ears to listen to it.

NO FACE GIRL COME HERE

No fucking way, she thinks, there is no fucking way she's the same girl from last night. However, as Mizuki scans the crowd, their eyes meet, and the idol's face falls. She stares at them with an expression of shock, eyes wide, mouth ajar, and the woman is hit with the urge to leave. Sasha squeals excitedly, waving her pinchers wildly, clicking again.

LIKE YOU NO FACE GIRL PLEASE COME OVER AGATKA WANTS TO TALK TO YOU

"No, I don't!" the woman hisses, looking over at Sasha.

Sasha just makes a clicking noise, shakes her head, and pushes her forward with a pincher. The woman stumbles forward, hands scrabbling for balance. Mizuki backs away a step with an expression of horror, and the woman is dangerously close to two security guards, who stare at her with disdain.

"Stop it! This was a mistake, let's go home, Sasha."

The woman feels people staring at her, and a murmur starts in the crowd at the sight of one of their idols afraid of someone in the audience. Someone takes her picture, she hears the snap of a phone through the blood in her ears. Her breath comes out in heaves, and her body is shaking at this point. Every ounce of her is screaming for her to run away. Run. Run, run, run, run.

AGATKA IS VERY NICE NOT SCARY NO FACE GIRL! SHE LIKES YOU VERY MUCH

"Sasha, that's enough!" she sobs and runs out of the crowd.

Distantly, she hears Sasha growl as she makes her way to the stairs, then the clicking of her footsteps as the scizor follows her. The woman runs down the staircase, through the store, and out into Akihabara. She leans over the steps and hyperventilates for a few moments, sweat dripping down her neck.

WHAT WRONG?

Sasha taps her back softly, and the woman looks back at her slowly. Gently, she stands up, looking at Sasha. Part of her is screaming at her to yell at Sasha for sinking any chances of having a positive relationship with a hot girl, but that would make her no better than the geezer. So she stays silent, pressing her lips together.

WAS I BAD?

"Yeah," she sighs bitterly, shaking her head, "you really scared off No Face Girl."

Sasha's body slumps forward, and she stares at her owner sadly.

SORRY AGATKA

"It's fine, Sasha," she tries to sound like she's smiling, patting her carapace, "there are lots of other people out there. I'll make a friend some other way."

The attempt at comfort doesn't cheer up Sasha. She's sluggish the entire way to the train station, and on the way back. The woman tries telling her jokes, buying her favorite kind of yakitori for lunch (chicken intestine), or talking to her about stuff people walking past them are doing to take her mind off, but the scizor just sulks in silence.

When she gets home, Sasha just walks over to the grey couch in front of the TV and sits down. Layka walks over to her and sniffs the scizor, resting her head on her legs and staring up at her. Sasha pats her head weakly.

"Sasha," she says, walking to the scizor, "I'm not mad at you."

KNOW THAT

"Do you want me to do something to cheer you up?"

TURN TV ON. WANT FUNNY SHOW

So the woman turns the television on to some variety show, with a lot of physical humor. The scizor makes a happy chirping noise and leans towards the screen. She spaces out as she watches some guy get hit in the nuts over and over again, to Sasha's apparent amusement.

Kick 'em while they're up, kick 'em while they're down, her mind sings as her eyes shut.

She snaps awake about a half hour later to the sound of knocking against her front door. For a second, she forgets where she is and thinks it's them. She rushes over to her kitchen and grabs her cleaver, before setting it down with a clatter. No, she's not in Russia anymore. They can't hurt her. In fact, it's probably the police, coming on some sort of call due to the concert. Opening the door with a cleaver in hand isn't the way to show them that they're sadly mistaken. So, she walks over to the door, Layka, and Sasha in close pursuit, and opens it up a little, enough to show her mask's eyes.

It's Mizuki, still wearing her ridiculous frilly dress from Donki. She glares at the woman, her arms across her chest and mouth tight. The woman almost wants to laugh.

"Mizuki?" she asks slowly, and the idol doesn't react, "What's the matter?"

She stays silent, looking straight at her. The woman swallows.

"You know, people are going to think we have a thing going on," she jokes, getting no reaction, "what do you want from me?"

Mizuki simply grabs the door and pulls it open. The woman barely manages to catch her balance as she loses her grip on the door. The idol's eyes narrow, and she marches into her apartment. Sasha squeals excitedly, happy that she hadn't been bad, No Face Girl is here right now, so she's a good girl.

"What are you doing? And how the fuck did you know where my apartment was?" the woman snaps, losing her patience.

Mizuki looks back at her, her eyebrows raising.

"Turns out, finding where you live was easy," she growls, and the woman tugs at the hem of her jacket, "you're not exactly good at hiding away, mask lady."

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Oh?" the idol smirks, sitting down at the kitchen counter, "Not even a stalking habit?"

"This again? Look, I'm sorry I freaked you out at the concert, fan meeting, whatever the fuck it was. Sasha gets a little pushy when she wants something, and she really wanted to see you again… I-I really shouldn't have let her rope me into it, and I'm dearly sorry about ruining your time up there, but-"

"I'm not talking about the meeting."

"Then, what are you talking about?"

"The studio," she says, and the woman stares at her in confusion.

"What studio?"

Mizuki stands up, grabs her hand, and forces her out of her apartment, Layka, and Sasha close behind. The woman tugs angrily and manages to herself from the idol, who looks dangerously close to exploding in anger, her face bright red.

"I need to get Layka on a leash and my apartment locked," she hisses, jabbing a finger into the idols chest, "or I'm gonna end up with a dead lycanroc and my shit stolen, and you're going to pay for both!"

The idol huffs but waves her hand in a sort of 'go ahead' gesture. After the woman grabs a red leash, puts it on her lycanroc, and locks her door, she holds her free hand in front of her. Mizuki takes it and tugs her along again.

They all pile into a thankfully empty elevator car and manage to make their way out of her apartment without engaging in any conversation with the receptionist, who isn't visible. Must be her lunch break, the woman thinks to herself.

Mizuki pulls her through the crowds of midday Shibuya, where she can clearly hear people chattering about them, staring right at her. Layka walks close by her side, glaring at passerby, while Sasha is chirping happily to herself, a pep in her step. It honestly feels like she's being led to her execution, yet, she's done nothing wrong.

At least, she thinks so.

They march through the lobby of 'the studio', up another metallic, lifeless elevator, until they reach the fourth floor. The studio is a bright yellow room, with a baby blue couch, a flat screen playing music videos on loop, and portraits of every member of AKB48 on the wall. Well, walls. There are about one hundred portraits, and the management is dead set on fitting each girl in a space on one of the walls, so their smiling face is seen by every new girl who walks through. The woman rolls her eyes and shakes her head at the sight of all these young impressionable girls.

Fed through the machine, she imagines Nikita saying, ground down into a palatable paste. A real pity.

"What's your name?" the idol asks, snapping the woman away from her thoughts.

The woman jumbles together ideas for a moment, before coming up with an actual name.

"Nakano Jimmu."

"Jimmu, huh?" she sniffs, and Jimmu nods, the name feeling somewhat natural for her, "Weird name for a woman like you."

"My parents wanted me to live up to the name," the woman sniffs, and Layka glances up at her, "is that so wrong?"

"No, just... bizarre," she huffs, pulling Jimmu forward once more.

They walk through the hallways in complete silence. Occasionally, Jimmu sees one or two of Mizuki's bandmates dart past, usually wearing similarly ridiculous dresses, staring at her, and flinching away from Sasha. Eventually, Mizuki pulls her around a corner and into a bright pink room.

The first thing she notices is the smell of rotting carcass, almost like her uncle's farm back in Russia. The smell hangs heavy in the air, and Jimmu notices Layka drooling on her shoes. She tries to focus on something else, like how close the walls feel, the makeup counters and desks leaning against the walls adding to the suffocating feeling of the room. There's a large portrait of all the AKB48 girls hanging on the wall in front of her, it's impossible to discern any individuals in the picture. A few of the girls from Donki are hanging around, their faces grim. One of them, a short girl with dark hair in two pigtails, walks up to Mizuki, but the older idol stops her from speaking and gestures towards one of the walls behind the mask-wearing woman.

Jimmu turns to face it. There's a mint green couch against the wall, and she rolls her eyes at the garish color. On the cushions, there's a dark red stain nearly covering the entire couch, and the corpses of four dark rattata lay across it, their mouths hanging open and necks lolling to the side.

The woman's seen dead pokemon before, having to clean the gory aftermath of a few scizor fights gone wrong. Usually, that mess was rather easily cleaned up by using a hose for the blood and a magnet for the remaining pieces of the losing scizor. They weren't really fond of leaving any mess behind when they killed pokemon.

However, all Jimmu can think about is how much of a pain this mess is to clean. First, you destroy the bodies, which are probably already rotting and full of bugs, wash the cushions if possible, spray some sort of cleaner, and hope that the girls forget this.

"Why did you do it?" Mizuki asks suddenly, hands on her hips.

For one second, Jimmu wishes she can beam her incredulous expression into the idol's brain.

"What?"

"Why did you kill all these rattata, and leave them for the world to see, huh?" she prods the woman's chest hard, "Why? Is this your way of confessing, having your scizor tear apart some poor rattata and leave them here?"

"Zuki-chan…" one of the girls starts, and Mizuki waves her away.

"You're obsessed with me, aren't you? You can't stop thinking about me, so you follow me down to Shibuya, go into our studio with that stupid demon mask on, and lead your stupid scizor in he-"

"Neck bone," Jimmu says quickly, staring at the corpses.

"What?" the idol asks incredulously, as Jimmu turns to face her.

The other girls look at them, their eyes wide. They're standing far far away from Jimmu, afraid that she'll try something with them. Jimmu begins to pace, her hands fidgeting nervously.

"Scizor's pinchers have enough strength to cleave nearly any bone perfectly in half. When they attack something with the intent to kill, it's almost always a clean cut," she says, walking over to the couch, "so…"

Jimmu grabs one of the rattatas corpses, to the screams and shouting of the teenagers watching. She turns toward Mizuki, whose face is pale with horror and disgust, and gestures towards the imperfect attempt at decapitating it.

"If Sasha did leave you these gifts, the neck bone would've been perfectly severed. This looks like it was sawed off with a shitty fucking kitchen knife."

Jimmu pauses to set the rattata down. A wave of suspicion and fear runs over her, and she swallows painfully. Can't be them, she's been smart. She isn't using her real name. How could it be them? It's ridiculous. She runs a hand through her hair, sweaty with nerves and heat.

"This is someone's shitty attempt at framing me."

"Oh?" Mizuki says, crossing her arms, "And who would frame you for something like this, Jimmu?"

When they'd been at their apartment, they'd always left some sort of hint. It'd be hidden away, in a cabinet, behind a dresser, but always would be there. It was KGB psychological warfare, Nikita told her, it meant that they'd either searched the apartment or bugged it to track them. If it was indeed them, and she prays it isn't, they would've left something for her, to let her know.

But where would they leave it in here?

Jimmu pulls the disgusting couch away from the wall and searches behind it. Nothing. She looks under the chairs, makeup counters, and desks. Nothing again. She looks behind another couch, this one purple and kind of saggy. Still nothing.

Finally, she grabs the picture, to the protest of Mizuki and her bandmates, and pulls it off the wall.

On the wall, there are three pictures and a thick envelope pinned to it with two push pins each.

The first picture is of a torracat, standing upon its hind legs and gesturing wildly with an expression of shock. It looks as if it's from some old Soviet children's book.

The text below it is in Russian, and reads:

"LOOK AT THESE KITTENS!"

There's only one kitten picture, and it is of a young litten, puffing up and visibly fearful of a little rufflet chick staring at it.

The text reads:

"COWARD."

Jimmu takes a deep breath, in and out, before continuing onto the next image.

It's of the torracat from before, its legs positioning like arms holding it's upper body up, and it winks knowingly at Jimmu. There's a note in red ink under the text this time.

"Tell me, does anyone of you resemble these kittens?"

"A certain bastard, perhaps?"

They're here.

They found her location somehow, even though the two of them had attempted to leave the country without a paper trail, followed her, killed all those rattata, and framed her for it. Nikita and Jimmu had escaped, and they have always wanted them back into the fold for whatever fucking reason. And would stop at nothing to achieve it.

Her hands shake, and she feels sick, bile itching and burning in her throat. Still, she reaches for the envelope, her vision blurring with stress. She tears it open, only to find a card with a cute little paper doll cut-out of a bride and groom holding hands. Looking closer, Jimmu notices the groom has a miniature red Mahakala mask, and the bride resembles Mizuki, even adding in a white facemask. She begins to hyperventilate for the second time today, probably some sort of new record for her.

Jimmu opens the card, and a flurry of photographs fall from it. Picking one up and examining it, she sees the blurry forms of Mizuki and her in the Mahakala mask arguing late last night.

They had been there the whole time...

The card itself has print writing in Japanese, then the sweeping red ink Russian cursive underneath it, its elegance almost mocking to Jimmu.

The Japanese reads:

"Congratulations on your big day!"

And underneath that:

"Thank you in advance for introducing us to Mizuki Shirogane! I'm sure the two of you together will be of great use to all of us."

Jimmu stands still for a moment, just staring at the card, reading it until it made no sense anymore. Distantly, she sees Mizuki on her knees, picking up the pictures on the floor, and hears her group mates chatter in fearful voices.

Then, her legs buckle, and Jimmu falls to the floor.

Re, the ending of chapter two:



On a serious note, hooooo, it's great to be back at this after how many years since I read chapter one? Too many. Anyway, the point is that this is actually more delightful the second time around ... in part because I'm no longer a dick who's actively looking for things to criticize. Instead, I'm a filthy, filthy shipper who just wants good things to happen to Jimmu. (Because, really, who doesn't?) Like, sure, the first chapter practically establishes her as this creepy af stalker for the longest time, but then it switches out to that hilariously delightful trope that I s2g actually, legitimately never gets old, which is: "No, really, I live here."

On that note, I can't even begin to tell you why that trope is so delightful. I'm pretty sure it just has to do with the fact that it actually says a lot more about Mizuki than anything else leading up to that point. Mizuki is just pretty much Tsundere Central from start to finish. Oh, sure, she has a reason to be rude and on-edge Literally, if I was an extremely young adult woman walking home alone at night with some rando in a demon mask that I came across in a completely different part of the city following me around, I would 100% ... not so much call them out as threaten violence, but Mizuki is a better person than I could be. But then? Then when it turns out that, no, this random person she's been screaming at just happened to live there? Then, when she starts in on how stupid the mask is and how Jimmu clearly needs to wear something better? Not only does this line up perfectly with what she does in chapter two (rush off to accuse Jimmu of BS without even taking off her idol gear first), but it's just downright hilarious. It's the stuff of cheesy romcom animes from the mid-00s. It is literally one pair of panties short of being the cheesiest, cringiest anime the past decade gave us.

And it could leave it at that and be delightful, but then the second chapter happens and gives us so much more. It switches to Jimmu, who immediately turns this into a J-drama with a loaner character with a tragic backstory ... hence my desire for good things to happen to our intrepid protagonist. You even give us the signature roule punchiness with a character who grows physically ill over extremely bad news, but this time around, it just feels more visceral somehow. Like, you could feel Jimmu's stomach sink and her blood run cold the second she sees her dad on TV. And the explanation for why this is so bad happens at just the right time to make this feel exactly like a slow sink into a spiraling drain. And then we cut to her humble and lonely life with just Sasha (who's an adorable bean but probably her only real form of social contact) and Layka (who's a dog and is therefore less of a source of intellectual stimulation—so much so that she barely gets much in the way of actual character development, compared to Sasha), followed immediately by the chaos of Don Quixote (seeped with enough negative imagery to just paint that impending anxiety attack). It's just plain difficult to avoid feeling sorry for Jimmu because she went from having some kind of social contact to this weird, isolated world where she's simultaneously running from her past and probably probing for some kind of normalcy in her near future. You just want to have good things happen to Jimmu, okay?

And then? Then that last act turns this whole thing into a straight-up conspiracy/mystery destined to smash our two protagonists together in a mess of intrigue, mistrust, and murder, and you know what? I'm okay with this. I'm here for conspiracy lesbians.

All in all, I'm glad this is here on the CL and that you've continued it because you've got likable characters and a quickly blossoming plot full of darkness and fun, and I am 100% here for all of that and the potential for lesbians. Please keep up the good work.

Oh, and finally? Sasha is a precious bean. That is all.

reviewing chapters 1 and 2 for the book club!

worldbuilding. that's the main thing I look for in pokémon fics, and I'm glad that you delivered so well. you seem to really make a point of showing, through dialogue and narration, the how and why of the pokémon coexisting with people in akihabara; as well as the particularities of such bonds. the one thing I'll say confused me a bit was how "genderfluid" the fic seems, in the sense that I can't quite nail down if it's an adventure with romance on the side, or a mature, noir-esque experience, or a straight-up dark and mature story not unlike, say, games like the last of us and whatnot. I'm guessing this is intentional, however, and all will make sense as I proceed. I did read just the first two chapters after all

your grammar is perfect, and, while I personally stumbled a bit with the pokémon species' names in lowercase, I know style when I see it and I think it's unfair to criticize style objectively. it's your thing and it's my job to adapt to it.

mizuki, as a character, feels like a dark and opaque wall with a vast hidden depth to her. I can't help but feel like, "shallow" as she may seem at times for now, this is just the stepping stone for loads of development along the way - as she's challenged by the world around her.