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Utahime was having a very not good, horrible, absolutely horrendous night.
Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t exactly like spending her Saturday nights behind the lower deck of a deluxe cruise ship. She didn’t like the taste of salt in her mouth, the wind in her hair, the blisters in her feet because Shoko insisted an extra inch would make a world of difference. The emerald silk dress she wore had a wide slit just past her thigh, lending her legs some mobility where her back was plastered behind boxes of cargo, hiding from her target.
The wind was biting, puffs of air gnawing its way into her barely concealed skin. She fights a wave of annoyance threatening to push its way, forcing herself to remember the mission instead.
Her mark was busy conversing with another patron, a cigarette on his hand and a bottle of whiskey on the other. Utahime knew men like this, had been trained to profile them at first glance, and it was how she knew this would drag.
Privilege warranted these types of men could casually double deal under the table in the morning, selling off drugs and women and militia warfare to all interested parties; but still make it to an exclusive and expensive gala by night. She shivered at the thought.
To make things worse, she was partnered with Gojo.
The same man who looked all too smug in front of her.
“I’d offer you my jacket,” he grinned, catching the slight tremor in her body. In direct contrast to her almost barren clothing, he was wearing his black suede suit, crisp as a banknote and hung on his frame in all the right places. The bastard was fully clothed from top to bottom. “But isn’t that what we’re trying to fight against?”
Utahime glared at him, fastening her grip on the 15mm silencer pistol she had poised in front of her. “Shut up.”
Gojo chuckled lowly, eyes drawing back to the railings where their mark was located. His tone had been light, even a little playful; but his posture never betrayed him, not even during the most strenuous of situations. It was why Yaga favoured him, along with Getou.
It was like they were born ready to be in the service of liars and killers.
Belatedly, Utahime registers it as some form of twisted compliment to have been partnered with one of the 007’s greatest hitmen so early in her espionage tenure. She heard the rumours, of the initiation process being even more traumatic than recruitment. It was different for everyone, Ijichi had told her; Getou had to leave behind his twins, Shoko apparently was forced to stop her chainsmoking habit, and Gojo—well, no one knows exactly. Apart from the brief profile Yaga handed her before the mission that detailed his skillset, more a formality than anything, it revealed nothing else apart from what everyone already knew. That he was a damn good spy.
But so was she.
Utahime sensed movement from her peripheral, and without waiting for confirmation, she lunged forward into the night.
It took her five minutes to notice Gojo was staring.
Hell, even the whole extraction and hostage taking had been done in far less. Mahito was surprisingly spry and somewhat cowardly once they pinned him down. Utahime wasn’t even given a chance to try out the new interrogation tactic the intelligence team conjured for this high-profile client, Shoko was going to have to verify her new research some other way.
What had happened, however, was a damn chip in her manicure.
Her perfect ruby red nails she had done especially for this occasion, was now no more a crack in the otherwise perfect gel casings. With a heeled foot planted firmly in the now unconscious Mahito laying on the floor, she was observing her nails woefully, when she felt the knowing feeling of being stared at.
She turns her head to the side, glaring at Gojo. “What?”
The midnight hues of the moon bounced off the marble floor, illuminating everything in a luminescent glow. The crashing of the waves was a steady rhythm in the background. Gojo’s dark suit had morphed into a navy blue under the light, making his frosty eyes even more arresting. He was holding one of the unconscious guards, the person Mahito was talking to, in his arms. There was a twinkle in his eyes, looking far more sinister than the Cheshire play of the moon herself.
“What are you,” Gojo smirks. “A Bond girl?”
Utahime tries very hard not to point her gun in his direction and pull the trigger.
Instead, she hauls Mahito up with one hand, taking care not to chip her manicure any further. She flips her auburn hair to one side, letting the wind work in her favour. The slit in her dress parted slightly during the process, and she feels his eyes drop in that fraction of a second.
“Please,” Utahime scoffs. “If anything, I’m Bond.”