Chapter Text
The masked assistant let out a grunt, walking into the small room and closing the door. It wasn’t much—a hotel room Big Mama had provided while under her order. The assistant had bore it down to the bare necessities—removing the extra, unneeded pillows and comforter, stashing the soap bars and containers from the added bathroom for later after the job was done.
The bed was on the center of the room against the wall, away from the door, with just one white pillow and a boring, brown blanket. The nearby closet was empty, and the wardrobe across from the bed was as well except for the one drawer filled with spare robes and clothes.
There was no personality in the room. Nothing hinted at the assistant’s true self. No paintings, art, pictures, nothing of the sort. Except for the hotel’s art on the walls, which the assistant had tried to take off, but had failed because they were screwed on.
There was also a mirror in the room, right by the wardrobe side’s away from the door, almost completely hidden at first look. The first day there, the assistant had hammered in a screw and hung it up to meet it face-to-face each morning.
It would suggest that the assistant was vain. Completely obsessed with looks and face-value. Which would be strange, for an assistant who stay completely masked the entire day, except for the room.
The assistant let out another grunt of pain and walked to the mirror, tearing the mask off.
The turtle mutant’s face was a olive green, angled and with a snout much like kappas. It had allowed her to keep the guise of one for so long, even if the several scars and stitches along her face suggested otherwise. Her eyes were angled as well, sharp and pointy, orbs orange-brown.
What was new was the red liquid streaming down from a cut right a few bare inches on her bare forehead.
The mutant swore, a two-fingered hand going up to touch it and determine the damage, only for her to realize they were still wrapped up and tipped with their weaponized claws. She tore off the gold pricks, throwing them to the floor without a care as she had other things to worry about.
Her fingers came up to the wound and stretched out the skin at each side, even more blood pouring down along her face. She scowled in the mirror—she’d have to get another stitch, it seemed.
So she turned to the adjacent bathroom, her mind wandering back to who had sliced through her hood and gave her the wound in the first place—that pesky blue-masked kappa.
That stupid smirk of his, the bolt of pain his sword gave her and pulled down her hood, almost her mask as well. The stupid “oops!” he grinned afterwards, then making some joke about a headache or something of the sort. The assistant would’ve killed him right then and there, had not been for her employer telling her that she was to hold off and let him and the other turtles live.
Her rage was good, but her ability to follow orders was better.
She tore off the claws from her other hand, them joining their counterparts on the floor, and she stomped into the bathroom, which was just as bland and neat as the rest of her room had been. A white porcelain toilet to her right, a kitchen sink and mirror-covered cupboard right by it, and a round shower in the corner that was sealed off with a pale blue curtain.
She pulled the mirror above the sink back to show the two-shelves inside, pulling out a familiar small white kit with a big red plus on it. This was one of the few things she personally owned—a med kit granted by her first mentor, one she had used for years to stitch up every slice she had gotten.
Of course, that history was for another time.
She closed the mirror and placed the kit on the sink, snapping it open. Inside was everything she could need—antiseptic, thread, needles, staples and a small staple gun if the need ever came, bandages, Cotten balls, and medical tape. The objects themselves were replaceable, it was the case that always stayed the same.
She pulled out the antiseptic and a cotton ball. Her employer had told her she should go to the medic to get her injury checked on, but the assistant had learned long ago not to trust your injuries in the hands of other people. Again, a history for another time.
The stitches she had along her cheek, under her eye, on her jaw, near her collarbone, and all the others concealed by her robes were done by her. And she was determined to keep it like that.
It was time to add another.
As she cleaned the wound and sterilized the needle—she had gotten used to the pain of cleaning wounds a long time ago—her mind couldn’t help but to tread back to what she had been, all those years ago as a little kid.
Her origins, what she was supposed to be.
Her name had been Venus de Milo.
Her creator had named her after one of the sculptures humans had created that he admired, even if he was dead set on destroying humanity.
He had told her she was named after it because just like the sculpture, she was a thing of beauty. A wondrous creation that would be used to help serve and protect yokai kind along him and other future warriors. And even though she had been a prototype, and she wasn’t as perfect as her creator had wanted her to be, she was still beautiful in her own way.
But once again, that had happened a long time ago. 16 years, in fact. Not that she had been counting.
Nowadays, when people contacted her for business and opportunities, she liked to be referred as the Venus Flytrap—named after the carnivorous plant. It fit her more—there was no way she was beautiful after all her stitches. But she was definitely dangerous.
Before the assistant knew it, she was tying off the stitch and cleaning the needle.
She had started to daze off during stitching a while ago. After a few years, she got used to the pain of cleaning her wounds. Eventually each pinch of the needle blurred into each other second of her life.
After she was done, she sighed, cleaning up her mess and putting the kit away. She cracked her jaw, moving her head and pressing at the back of it to check for anymore injuries. Maybe a bruise here or there, but it was nothing some sleep and ice couldn’t fix.
Then she cracked her fingers, and her mind imagined the cracking to be somewhat akin to the cracking of bones, particularly of that kappa who dared slice her earlier.
She knew she’d get her revenge eventually. Maybe give him a stitch back. Yes, that sounded nice. Of course, she could only do it with Big Mama’s order, but with how regular and pesky those ninja kappas had become, she felt like it was only a matter of time for when she would be allowed to strike back.
And when the Venus Flytrap strikes back, she strikes back hard.