I head down a narrow cobblestone path, walking between looming buildings of orange, white, and dulled-out grey. Five minutes in, I turn right, passing a series of potted plants and hanging geraniums. Seven minutes after that, my path takes me under a small stone archway, culminating in a series of cute, pastel buildings—each decorated with candy motifs, like that of candy canes, cakes, or chocolate.

And no sooner, I plop down on a metal bench.

Senseless wandering has begun to wear on me. The prospect of its interminable expansion, a mild burden on my conscience.

“Haha…”

I giggle while looking the seat over. Against the afternoon sun, the bench shines an incongruous metallic green, painfully out of place in this confectionery wonderland. In that sense, we are the same. Each a foreign entity, brought on by a spur of logic incompatible with that of the natives.

I mean, what are you thinking, Xie Yunluo?

What the hell are you doing in France?

You’d come here to pursue Chigetsu, but instead, you find yourself frolicking amongst women and savouring food. Were it not for Earlene’s earlier statement, would you have continued doing so? Ignoring the reason why you came in the first place?

Are the joys of such pastimes more important to you than loyalty and avenging your Grandmaster? He who took you in for the better part of eight to nine years?

Or is it just that you fear to see Chigetsu again? That you fear what you’ll feel when you meet her…

“Hey, mademoiselle!”

Hm?

Standing across the street yells a man of twenty years of age. Assuming he’s calling someone else, I wallow in my thoughts, holding my pouch close to my chest.

“Hey, you know I’m talking to you, right?”

I freeze in place, quickly checking my left and right. Sure enough, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else besides him and a few friends.

“Hey, you speak French, right?”

The man and his entourage waltz on over. Of the five, three are visibly armed, strapped with daggers to their thighs. Yet, their gait tells me all I need to know. Their centre of median is off, and while they may conceal weapons beneath their heavy fur coats, I doubt it will prove sufficient.

The lead man—clearly a de facto leader, grabs my wrist. As he does so, he lets loose a chortle, his ensemble joining him in a chorus of chuckles and exhales. His touch proves cold—unnaturally so, as if let to wither in the long winter months.

“We’re running some photo shoots.”

Barely suppressing their laughter, another chimes in, “Yeah, for some ‘horizontal workouts’. All sorts of yoga poses and shit—mountain pose, corpse pose, pretzel dip, whatever’s going on in the Kamasutra or whatever the hell Indians call it, you name it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Alain,” says the lead man. “Anyway, ignore the dipshit behind me. His mother dropped him as a kid, and to be frank, he’d be pretty fucking stupid even if she didn’t.”

He exerts no small amount of force, pulling me forward with his vice-like grip. I oblige out of instinct, still wondering about my next course of action. Logically speaking, I don’t think men who tug on random strangers’ wrists are particularly amicable. Much less those who use such vulgar language in subsequent succession. But, I might just be in the wrong place—and, who knows, maybe this is an off-limits area, like a hazardous site for radioactive waste.

Strictly speaking, there is a lack of people here, which, compared with the relative bustle of other streets, does seem fairly note-worthy…

“Do you think she even understands us?”

I let myself be dragged a few steps off, turning left into an enclosed alleyway, itself two-person wide at best.

“Beats me, but what difference does it make? When it comes to what matters, screams are a universal language.”

I lead in with an in-step, pivoting on my left foot as I face the man dragging me. With a thrust of my left index finger, I hit his chest’s pressure point, hoping to render him unconscious. Save for a reflexive grin, however, the man does not even react.

No. More than that. It is as if my attack did not register.

Any living person should be out of breath when struck at that constriction point.

So how?

I stand there contemplatively, wondering as to what went wrong.

Was I too gentle? Has this man some form of negating my attack? Had I missed all together and gone off-centre?

Before I can arrive at a conclusion, I let loose a one-inch punch, striking him in his stomach. This time, it has an effect, driving the man against the wall, now visibly reeling. With him out of commission, I direct my attention to the rest of his ensemble.

About two metres in height, a brutish blonde-haired man spurs forward. Wielding a switchblade, he swings it forth in a downward curve, slashing in my general direction. Though his speed is surprisingly swift, surpassing the average man by leaps and bounds, it still proves insufficient.

Exploiting his moment of recovery, I land a simple front snap kick, sending his knife hurtling through the air, its trajectory into the palm of my hand.

“Despicable.”

The switchblade’s surface is worn and used, with both irregular dents and blotches of rust. This weapon should have been retired long ago, and its current usage only invites further admonishment on my behalf.

Foreign I may be, I cannot simply let such brigands wander free. If it will take a lesson of violence, then a teacher I shall become.

So, as I stand there, poised for combat, something emerges from behind.

A shrill, feminine sound—a woman’s voice, to be exact—ushered with sudden steps.

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“Oi, that’s enough, you pea-brained maggots!”

Upon her energetic reprimand, the men buckle, shifting uncomfortably in place.

“Hey, hey, no side-eye Alain! If I catch you with one of those again, I’m gouging both of your pretty blue eyes out! And don’t even think about anaesthetic either, gyahaha! You’ll get to feel my nubile fingers all the way to your prefrontal cortex, I’ll tell you what!”

At this, the men tuck tail and flee, scrambling in an unsynchronised crowd.

Glad to witness such heroism, I prepare to thank my saviour, turning to meet their gaze head-on—turning to meet their lustrous, violet eyes, an all too familiar sight in this foreign city, a sight I only now recollect, flooding in with dozens of memories.

It’s weird to even think I can forget her. This is Suoma we’re talking about! She saved me back when I first came and has been nothing but delightful since!

I examine the girl head to toe. Long green hair, layered and wavy, slightly slanted eyes, tinted eggplant purple, and a shapely, almost gremlin-like face, stuck in a perpetual ‘I’m gonna eat you’ expression. Combined with her low-cut black smock and wraps of red and blue across her body, this girl can only be her!

“Yun, eh?” muses Suoma, in a tone all too unfamiliar for time-old friends.

“S-Suoma, what are you doing here?”

“Oh ya know, just collecting fresh test subjec—I MEAN, making friends, and integrating into French society like a civilised human, gyahaha! The usual Tuesday afternoon!”

Her timing couldn’t have been more apt! I mean, if it weren’t for our prior history, I’d reason it’s suspiciously so, even!

“Well, thank you for coming!” I bow at a ninety-degree angle.

“Wowza, that’s awfully courteous of you, lil broski, no need to get all fancy with big siski. Crap, that’s such a dog water rhyme, well, whatever, come on, let’s huddle indoors or something, and do what pseudo-siblings do when they’re deprived of love, minus the incestual undertones.”

Suoma pushes onward. Gripping her hand within mine, she seems intent on taking me back to her place—the little apartment just across this dingy alleyway. Mulling over the warmth of her fingers, I follow her to a reinforced steel door, inlaid with squiggly symbols, art, and a sign that says ‘an ultra painful death to any and all intruders!!!’

“Perkele… Where the hell is my key?” My saviour fumbles through a large drawstring pouch. Squeals of rodents and other animals emanate from within, clashing with metal and other objects. “Ah, there you are, you little shit.” At last, she finds her key, an odd little thing that resembles a miniature spruce tree more than anything else.

With a heavy turn and a bash of her shoulders, the door swings open. On cue, a waft of odours assail me—a blend of herbs, food, and the synthetic.

“Mind your footing, broski.”

I step over a pile of books and scattered paper, moving past into a small room. Here, the ceiling hangs low, and the walls look a worn-out white, its lustrous limestone tainted all hues of black. With no windows to speak of, the lighting amounts to a few oil-lit lanterns placed on desks, tables, and corners, itself dim by use and time.

“Take a seat, will ya? I’ve gotta collect some things, and we’ll begin in a jiffy.”

I do as she asks, sitting on a decrypt rocking chair.

“Just gimme a bit longer…”

High-pitched sounds of shifting glass and moving paper break the silence, enveloping the room in an academic overtone. From the bookshelves to the vials to the unrecognisable artefacts strewn all over, one would think this an alchemist’s lair, some study locked away in dark and depths.

Only—that can’t be it. Because as far as I’m concerned, Suoma’s just an everyday girl with a penchant for vulgarity. A tall, pretty, eccentric one, but a civilian nonetheless…

Actually, now that I think about it, where did we meet again? And better yet—why are there empty holes where my memory of her should be?

“Hey, hey, Yun boy, no awakening to some thus veiled truth, is that clear? Better a man than a Buddha, better Alexander than Diogenes.”

She looks me over the back of her shoulder. My eyes meet hers, falling into their violet embrace while Suoma walks on over. Now close, she reaches for the tall metal stool a few metres away, pulling it forward with a soft scrape.

“Let’s start with a few questions. First of all, what’s your full name?”

“Xie Yunluo, or Yunluo Xie, as the Occidental would go by.”

“Country of origin?”

“China, though, I spent some of my childhood in Mongolia.”

“Which dynasty do you pledge allegiance to? Last I remember, it’s not the 20th century.”

“None. I grew up in the mountains, where I was taught not to do so.”

“Okay, blood type?”

“A negative.”

“Why are you in that outfit? Not judging, just…mildly interested.”

“My mistress told me doing so is paramount to preserving my head.”

“Interesting…” Her voice trails off into a whisper. “This’d be the second time I’ve heard of such a setup. Note to self: verify contents of Saint-Ys’s water supply…”

“Miss. Suoma, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“That there is, my far-eastern friend. Say, would you be familiar with the game of ‘doctor’?”

A pause ensues. I ponder her question. Playing doctor would just refer to make-believe, right?

“Well, turns out big siski Suoma happens to be quite the expert in this game. Hell, if it weren’t for her limp leg and limper heart, she might’ve even won a championship or two…”

I sit, watching. The silence ends with a soft thud, that of Suoma’s hand patting her thigh. She does so twice. After a momentary pause, I heed her beckon, getting up and settling on her lap. The distance between us is close. At this distance, I can almost hear her heartbeat—that tender reminder of humanity and life itself.

“Hn.”

I let out an unconscious stutter. While meeting Suoma’s gaze, I feel her hands caress my back, gently unzipping my garment. Moving along, she then pulls it off my shoulders. The warmth of a nearby radiator beats at me now, and with it, the cold wisp of her breath.

“Tell me your wants, your frustrations—everything. Consider it a reward for what I’m going to collect from you.”

Basking in the comfort of skinship, I let my mind drift awry, thoughts trailing to my innermost desires.

“I want to become a hero—I want to save others and protect the ones closest to me.”

But, equal to that—no, maybe even more, what else do I want? What else did I come here for, if not to pursue that vain, selfish desire to the very end?

“I want… I want someone to love me like she did.”

“Continue…”

Her breath pours against my neck—a chill spreading on impact.

“But, it’s wrong. Wrong of a hero to indulge himself so. Because, because, even after everything she did, I’m not sure I can kill her.”

Tears begin to well in my eyes. I feel my vision shimmer, its view dimmed by water and darkness. Shameful as it is, in the face of overwhelming acceptance, I find myself inclined to cry, able to let loose the sentiments thus buried—hidden from the judgement of my martial siblings back home.

“Miss Suoma, do pardon the intrusion, but you’ve been occupied for some time and…”

My mind snaps back to the present. This voice that came from behind… Could it be?

No, wait, it definitely is!

“Madame Ysabeau?!”

Waltzing through the backdoor is my mistress, reading a large leather-bound tome.

Wait, what is she doing here?! Better yet, why am I being held in this woman’s arms (as shamefully comfortable as it may be?!).

“Hold it right there!”

Another voice joins the fray. This time, it’s Earlene, having kicked down the reinforced front door, standing valiantly against a backdrop of light. That is, until her eyes scan me, Suoma, and Ysabeau up and down, no doubt having arrived at some profane conclusion.

“Very well then!” she proclaims, drawing her poniard. “Once more unto the breach!”

All too inclined to violence, I tremble at the thought of an all-out brawl, wondering where it all went wrong.