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the magician says watch closely, / the lover says close your eyes.
— on vanishing acts, suzanne buffam
Not for the first time tonight, Himeko swirls what’s left of her drink in her champagne flute, and glowers in the direction of the dance floor. She knows this behaviour is unbecoming of someone like her—and then she thinks of where she is and why, and forces herself to physically loosen her grip on the delicate stem of her glass. She’s meant to be solving cases and catching criminals, not standing here waiting for something to happen—and least of all in an environment as fancy and pretentious as this. The Astral Express Detective Agency does not wait for criminals to fall into their lap, they go out and track them down. Beyond that, she is more suited to making connections and deductions and savouring the thrill of the chase—here, stuck in a half-decent evening dress from the depths of her closet, she is so far out of her element it practically crawls over her skin.
It had all started from a favour called in by Madam Herta, in exchange for her work stabilising the Stellaron in Stelle—the Genius in the flesh, too, summoning them all the way back to Herta Space Station to drop this task on them. That’s how Himeko had known it was serious.
“I need you guys to secure something from an auction for me. It’s an important research sample.”
Faced with the Herta, who pushes a small slip of lavender metal and an envelope across the table with a finger, even taking her eyes off of her work for a moment, Himeko can’t help but feel a little bit surprised at the seeming urgency of the situation that she—and the Express—have found themselves in. Herta never graces the ordinary people with her presence unless it’s an emergency, and even if she does, she’s in and out like a comet. For her to not only show up in person, but also put her work aside for this commission, to look Himeko in the eye instead of not at all or through a screen—Himeko isn’t sure what feeling it is that overtakes her, but it’s a mix of suspicion and surprise.
“But we’re detectives, not…” Stelle begins to say, before quickly closing her mouth when Herta flicks another slip of metal across the table—this one is golden, a card with a spending limit so high it could cover the Express’ expenses for an Amber Era, emblazoned with the logo of the Express. “Never mind!”
Himeko glances at Stelle briefly, a look of amusement flitting across her face before her expression smooths back out and she turns back to Herta. “What is the item in question?”
Herta flicks a lock of hair over her shoulder with a flourish, and Himeko ignores the sparkles that float in its wake even as March gasps behind her. It seems that even the space around the Genius must bend to her will, even if she warps reality only to add visual effects to her every movement.
“A fully contained, triple-sealed sample of a Stellaron—still fresh, apparently. All the way from far-off Shilla-39C—or, well, what’s left of it. Given how long ago that planet was destroyed, the fact that these samples are only just surfacing on the market now is drawing a lot of attention to them. I agreed with the auctioneers ahead of time that I’d be buying the item out, but for appearances’ sake, you guys’ll have to show up at the ball beforehand with my invitation, and then bid on it and pick it up for me. The purple card links to my account. The gold one is for you to keep and use on this mission. Asta will take care of the rest.”
Himeko nods, noting it down. It sounds like a dangerous cargo, so the Crew have to take special care in transporting it. Other than that, it sounds like an opportunity for the kids to relax after the high-pressure missions they’ve just been taking on—Himeko sees no issues with this, and from the look that Welt gives her, it seems that he concurs.
“Very well. We’ll take the task.”
Himeko scrawls her name across a sheaf of paper that Herta flicks across the table. This is standard procedure—Herta does so adore her contracts and confidentiality agreements, after all. All the easier to sue those who go back on their word before her, perhaps. March cheers and Stelle beams as Welt adds his own signature, the two girls tugging a stiff-looking Dan Heng behind them as they head for the door, already chatting about what they want to get. Herta nods in satisfaction.
“Perfect. Oh, just one last thing—”
Himeko turns, casting a curious glance at Herta, who barely spares her one in return as Welt pauses in the doorway, one hand still holding the door open as the younger members of the crew make their way back to the Express, the sound of their chatter audible despite the distance. “Apparently, the Stellaron Hunters have left a calling card behind, professing their intention to rob the Auction. They’ve got their eyes on the same thing, as I’m sure you can tell from their name. Really rather gauche, but I thought you might appreciate the heads-up.”
She knows of the Hunters—or, perhaps, it’s more apt to say that Dan Heng knows of the Hunters, and has spent a substantial amount of his time warning the rest of the Crew of the dangers that the Hunters pose. Deadly phantom thieves, untouchable and unpredictable criminals who do just as much bad as they do good—and the culprits behind some of the previous cases that the Express has picked up. Himeko feels her expression twist into one tinged with bitterness and regret. If she’d known it was going to be this dangerous, then she would never have accepted it.
Stelle pokes her head back in through the door, tilting her head in confusion. “Aren’t you guys coming? What’s wrong?”
Welt looks between Herta and Stelle, and Himeko rapidly pushes all thoughts of just accepting whatever consequences come from breaking a contract with The Madam Herta to the back of her mind, mulling over her words. Maybe they can all work out of an office in Planarcadia’s Dovebrook District instead—perhaps the Muratas still own enough property for them to set up a local detective agency instead, even if the money they save from no longer running the Express and whatever they make from odd jobs will likely not even be enough to cover a tenth of the contract breach fee. But she’s willing to do anything, so long as the younger members of the crew are safe.
“This mission is…more difficult than we imagined. There are too many unexpected factors that could make things go wrong. Apparently, we may end up going head-to-head with the Stellaron Hunters.”
Almost like Stelle can hear the inevitable conclusion that Himeko’s going to drop the mission, she widens her eyes immediately, adding an extra pleading sparkle into her gaze. Himeko looks away promptly—it seems that despite Stelle’s relative lack of experience investigating with the Express, both March and Dan Heng have taught her the ins and outs of the Crew. Welt loves mechs and robots, never make Pom-Pom angry, and Himeko’s heart is very, very soft when it comes to indulging the younger members of the Express.
Speaking of March and Dan Heng, the two of them have also made their speedy return, and after a brief status update from Stelle, Himeko finds herself faced with the full force of two sets of puppy-dog eyes and one set of please-help-me eyes.
“No! Please? We’ll take care of ourselves and go in prepared and always keep an eye out on the situation! We’ll even go running for backup the second you guys so much as tell us to! Tell her, Dan Heng!”
“I would…like to go,” Dan Heng finally manages to squeeze out, trying not to look like he’s being held hostage by a peppy pink-haired girl. “And we can protect each other.”
Welt chuckles in the background, and Himeko sighs. It seems the battle is over before it’s even been fought. Reluctantly, she nods, and the three erupt into cheers, now scrambling back to the Express to prepare. Welt shakes his head in good-natured exasperation as Himeko reconsiders all of the choices that have led up to this moment in her life, and the two of them move to take their leave—just then, a chilling, amethyst gaze slides from the digital screen that casts the Herta’s eternally-young features in blue light to Himeko, stopping her in her tracks.
“If the Hunters end up fighting you for it, let them have it.”
“I thought you said it was an important experimental sample?” Welt comments, frowning as he walks closer to Herta’s desk.
“You guys are more valuable.”
Himeko exchanges a surprised look with Welt. Maybe Madam Herta does have a heart after all.
“My time is more valuable than money, after all, and the Express saves me a lot of both by running my errands occasionally.”
Never mind. Welt smiles wryly at her, and then he’s showing himself out. With nothing left to say, an expectant trio waiting for her and an emergency escape path ready, Himeko follows shortly.
And then Dan Heng had come running with a report on the auction that Herta had tasked them with attending—the Attouine Universal Auction—and then the universal rights violations it had been involved in, as well as money laundering accusations and the…less than savoury provenance of some items sourced and put up for sale, and Himeko felt her marginally decent day become a terrible one.
But the Express follows through with its contracts once made, even if they are contracts made with clients that really should undergo a more thorough vetting process instead of faith in goodwill. Stelle and March 7th had both drooped visibly upon receiving this news, with the former tearing up a leaflet advertising a statue of the Garbage King Tatalov for sale and the latter retreating into a brief sulk about no longer being able to acquire a model of an old film camera she’d had her eye on for ages.
And then Stelle proposed the idea of emptying them of all their food and drink in revenge, and then March had perked back up immediately, so that was that.
At the thought of the disappointment on March’s face before Stelle’s suggestion, Himeko feels the expression on her face worsen. Even this event, being a masquerade ball that preludes the main attraction of the auction, does her countenance no favours.
Without her noticing—perhaps because she’s been so stuck in her own reverie?—Welt has sidled up to her, his own wine glass traded for what looks like a small cup of espresso that he takes occasional sips from. Welt has long lost the ability to sleep for reasons unknown to her—which makes him both the most productive member of the Express and everyone’s least favourite to room with on missions, given his propensity to mutter to himself while he occupies himself with his storyboards in lieu of actually getting any rest.
“Are you not going to dance?”
She knocks her flute against his cup gently, both a greeting and an unsaid comment on why he’s content to drink their coffee, but not hers. He coughs at that. “No. Someone has to keep an eye on the kids, after all.”
Welt tilts his head in her direction, fixing her with the gaze the younger members of the Express crew have affectionately dubbed the ‘disappointed dad gaze’, cutting even through the mask that his glasses are perched atop. Himeko hasn’t been a child for a long time, but there’s something about the oldest member of their crew that never fails to make something in her wilt. It makes her feel a little cowed, almost, because both of them know the futility of lying to Welt Yang and the foolishness of doing it anyway.
“Is that the only reason?”
And Welt is gracious, too—he doesn’t nag as much as Himeko, nor does he blow up like Pom-Pom. Here he is, offering her a lifeline—throwing a rope down, giving her another chance to come clean.
Sometimes, Himeko thinks he looks at her like he knows her as more than just a member of the crew, his clear gaze and grand expectations both heavy as a collapsing star. Other days, he looks at her like he sees his regrets trailing in her wake like the stardust that clings to the silver rails and golden gears of the Express. Today, it is neither—it is simply the gaze of a father-adjacent figure, which perhaps makes it infinitely more terrifying than either of the two.
She tries her best to tamp the rampaging thoughts in her tone down, chewing on her words; she really does. It’s just a shame that even after all this time, after so long as the reputed and respected ‘Defender of Dovebrook District’ and so long spent with reliable companions by her side, she has forgotten how to pretend to be someone she is not, just a thread of wistfulness surfacing in her tone like a moon’s reflection settling on stilling water. “Well, no one’s asked me to dance yet.”
“And I think that’s about to change.”
Himeko looks up at that, first to Welt, before she locks eyes with a delicate figure in magenta silk and chiffon, all silver grace in the dim light of the ballroom, making its way across the dance floor to her. She looks to her left and right and sees no one else—save Welt—who’s close enough to be a viable target for this new arrival’s attention.
“Are you sure she’s not here for you?” Himeko murmurs teasingly, and Welt laughs a little, holding his hand out—for a moment, she is confused, before he plucks the glass from her hand and waves her off.
“Go on. It’s my turn to keep watch.”
Still, Himeko lingers, caught on the threshold between two very different worlds—and then Welt notices, and his expression softens, so affectionate and caring it makes something in Himeko ache with a tenderness she hasn’t felt since she left Planarcadia, too many years ago. All of a sudden, she is seized with the worst kind of longing, homesickness, as it rends its claws across the fragile pulp of her heart—and then Welt smiles at her, encouraging and and proud, and suddenly just himself again instead of a figure of her past, and Himeko realises that maybe the burden she has carried alone has long grown lighter without her realising, with faithful companions by her side to shoulder the weight willingly, who care for her and want her to enjoy herself.
“Go. I’ll call for you if they look like they’re going to blow something up.”
Then the figure in magenta resolves itself into a woman, who comes to a stop in front of Himeko before dipping into a bow, her hand over her chest and the other extended before her. Every movement is perfectly choreographed charm and elegance, and despite herself, Himeko feels the anger and annoyance—and more recently, the fear and nervousness—that has accompanied her since accepting the mission, feeling it begin to slowly melt away like morning snow.
“Might I interest you in a dance?”
“I’m surprised you were brave enough to ask despite what I must’ve looked like from across the ballroom,” Himeko jokes awkwardly, her hand hovering just above the mysterious woman’s own, still hesitant to really commit and relax.
The mirth in the woman’s chuckle is warm, and so is her palm when she takes Himeko’s hand and leads them to the dance floor. “Oh, yes. You looked positively fuming. But that’s no excuse to let a lady as pretty as you spend her entire night on the sidelines, is it?”
“So you’re not just brave. You’re also a sweet-talker,” Himeko comments drily, receiving only a flippant shrug in response.
“Why? Is that bad?”
The band strikes up a slower tune, and Himeko’s reasonably sure that she even sees the four-armed Intellitron conductor gesture for something to happen with his third arm before the lights go back down, and then her dance partner is leading them smoothly into a waltz, and for once, Himeko is happy to follow, keeping an eye on how March and Stelle squabble over how best to smuggle thirty-two plates of appetisers out of the venue while Dan Heng steadfastly pretends not to know who they are.
“No,” Himeko finally relents, the thread pulled taut in her chest finally beginning to lighten and loosen, like string wound too tight finally unravelling under its own weight. Even if the night (and preceding day, and preceding week) started out terrible, maybe she still stands a chance of salvaging it, here and now. Maybe all of that can be done with the help of her new dance partner. “No, I suppose not.”
“You can call me K,” her partner says, and Himeko’s eyes flick back to the woman who’s chosen to keep her company tonight, whether out of some shared sense of camaraderie or out of pity. Either way and to some degree, as much as Himeko had been happy to stand in a corner and radiate fury, she is slightly happier to be asked to dance—and by someone so charming, too. “What brings you here tonight, my lady?”
“Rose. We were commissioned,” Himeko sighs, falling back on her alias to avoid having the Express’ name tied to an event such as this. “And the kids wanted to go to something lighter for once. Shame it turned out like…this, though.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Rights violations,” Himeko lists, like she’s ticking something off on her fingers. “Unclear provenances of the items they have for sale. Suspicious flows of money in and offplanet. And to top it all off, a terrible, irresponsible employer who told us to come, and expects us to do all the legwork for her.”
She expects this to kill the mood.
That is not what happens. K throws her head back and laughs, and oh, Aeons, Himeko is entranced. It is a lovely, musical sound, laced with mirth, and for a moment, she forgets they’re dancing—or even moving at all—when the world seems to slow to a stop, leaving just this single, golden moment that they’ve been suspended in, sweet and languid as syrup. Himeko thinks maybe the stress of the past few weeks has been worth it all, just for a taste of this singular, dizzying moment. K winks at her, the sly curve of her smile and the filigree that winds across her mask gleaming in the candlelight like quicksilver, before twirling Himeko with an ease that the Navigator can only dream of and drawing her back in, now even closer together.
…They’re nearly nose-to-nose now. K smells like sandalwood, like wildflowers and maybe ozone—and there, in an old dress and reeking of coffee (she’s long given up on smelling like anything else), Himeko feels a little out of place, so easily outshone it’s almost laughable.
And then K steps closer, and gathers Himeko into her light, and suddenly nothing else really matters anymore. The light is low, and yet K is still enchanting, blinding in some indescribable way—like a shining moon and fresh rain, like starlight, like something Himeko has never seen before and never will again, because perhaps nothing can compare to the woman who stands before her right now.
…like a supernova, Himeko finally realises. A dying star, reckless and blinding and entrancing, brilliant with a kind of light that cannot be compared to anything but itself because nothing else will come close.
“Did you hear the rumour that the Hunters are meant to show up tonight?” the woman whispers, like they’re sharing a joke whose punchline only they will be privy to, and against her better judgement, Himeko leans further in to hear. “They left their calling card and everything.”
“The organisers must be either supremely confident in their security or…supremely something else,” Himeko replies, just as quietly, and feels K laugh in the form of a quick huff of air near the shell of her ear. “I won’t say what it is. It’s not proper.”
“Would you say they deserve to be robbed, then?”
There is something searching in K’s tone, and Himeko does not know what it is. All she knows is that suddenly it is like they are skating on thin ice, but K is still leading and still confident, and so Himeko can only follow, one foot in front of the other as she prays not to fall, whether that’s through the ice or, perhaps infinitely worse—for K.
“Well,” is what she finally settles on. “I don’t think it’s my place to pass judgement on whether one is deserving or not. We of the Ex—”
She cuts herself off abruptly, suddenly remembering where she is. She is Rose tonight, someone working on a commissioner’s orders—not Himeko of the Astral Express. She clears her throat, and K cocks her head at Himeko in brief curiosity.
“...We should try to be impartial arbitrators, after all. Solve problems first, and attribute fault later.”
“So you think the Stellaron Hunters are bad?”
“I didn’t say that,” Himeko huffs in response, before sighing at her own behaviour, and before she can do so herself, her partner is already reaching up to adjust her mask for her, pushing a lock of red hair behind her ear in the same movement, and Himeko’s pearl earring tinkles when K’s gloved hand withdraws. “But, if I had to say, I’m…not sure anymore.”
“Then that’s good enough for me.”
In the low light, K’s lips are slightly shiny, and her pearl-pink eyes are too, dusky and inviting—and only then does Himeko realise that her partner’s hand is still on her cheek, having paused briefly, her touch light like star-crossed Pygmalion admiring his life’s work Galatea, or more like a painter and her endless, eternal muse, one celestial and perfect, leaving the other to chase their light endlessly, burning their hands on glory and stumbling in the wake of stardust. Himeko isn’t sure which one she is in this situation, the burning star or the blinded artist, and all at once, she isn’t sure she wants to pick.
The Navigator of the Astral Express has to be level-headed and logical, has to be smart and wary in every situation that strays across her table—but Himeko was once a girl who fell in love too easily and too quickly, and perhaps, for all of the galaxies she has seen and mysteries she has solved, the one thing that she will never be able to pick apart is the riddle that love poses to her. In that moment, she thanks her lucky stars that K is still leading, because if it were her, surely their steps would have strayed out of time by now, falling into rhythm with the stumbling, stammering sound of her heartbeat.
“Close your eyes,” her dance partner whispers, drawing a velvet-gloved hand over her masked eyes—and in the next moment, Himeko hears something explode and something shatter, and wonders if that is the sound of her heart.
It is not the sound of her heart, because it still beats in her chest at the next moment, much to her surprise. She feels the obstruction to her sight leave almost as quickly as it came, only for her to realise that all of the candles in the ballroom have burnt out at once, replaced by a blinding ring of light around the crown jewel of the auction—the Stellaron—that spotlights three people. A young woman in dark blue, a tall man in red and black, and…
…K. Her dance partner. Under white light, K—no, Samsa’s mask shines like the light of stars swallowed by a black hole instead of a supernova, all-consuming and ominous. The residual warmth of K’s hand still lingers on her waist, and yet when Samsa catches her eye, the smile she receives is practically glacial in its smugness, and the distance between them yawns wide as the infinite, terrible void of space. The smoke from what must’ve been a flashbang grenade is still dissipating, with participants still coughing and trying to regain their vision. Dan Heng has managed to shield March with his back and Stelle has used a plate of appetisers to reflect the light while Welt seems almost entirely unmoved, adjusting his glasses—for a moment, Himeko feels that this, like K’s performance on the dance floor, is a show meant for the Express alone to see, to witness the futility of their efforts in real time.
“We warned you.”
Not quite sure if the statement is directed at the organisers of the auction, Himeko grits her teeth with so much force she hears her jaw creak—and then, like a gust of wind and in a blinding spray of glass, the Hunters are gone, and every item of the auction with them, only empty display cases left behind.
“Deserved,” she hears Stelle mutter, and Dan Heng and March both have to stifle a laugh.
Himeko feels a terrible headache coming on.
“We weren’t able to secure the requested object,” Himeko reports, dipping her head in apology. Herta merely waves her apology off, flicking an IPC-sponsored news article off of her screen—STELLARON HUNTERS HIJACK INTERNATIONAL AUCTION, ABSCOND WITH 860B CREDITS OF STOLEN GOODS—and shrugging lightly. “I apologise. We ran into…more unforeseen factors.” STAR-SYSTEM-WIDE MANHUNT FOR SAMSA BEGINS.
“Were the Hunters really that unpredictable?” The Herta asks, now twirling her pen idly. “Well. No matter. This will be useful information for if I plan to secure more Stellaron samples in future.”
Oddly, the set of The Herta’s shoulders is loose despite the bad news—relaxed where she would normally have been snappish, even if she had prepared for the worst outcome. Himeko casts a glance at the half-eaten, delicately flaky pastries in a teal and ivory box on the single clean corner of the desk that is messy everywhere else, and wonders if it has something to do with the new partner in collaboration that Dan Heng’s been hearing so much about. “Well, it’s alright. I had the organisers insure me for the item, anyway. I’ll be able to pay off the debts that Asta’s been nagging me about for the last…oh, I don’t know, four months.”
Himeko doesn’t like being sent into a fight where she’s expected to lose and proving the expectations of defeat right—the only things she dislikes more include the new addition of Kafka and the Hunters. Today, filled with so many things that she detests and resents, seems like it might go down as one of the worst days in history for her.
“So you expected us to…fail?”
The Herta looks at Himeko like she’s stupid. For a moment, Himeko wonders if she really is, if there’s some magnificent cosmic joke here that she’s missing. “Of course I wouldn’t have sent you guys ahead of time without taking precautions. If I can make something a win-win solution, then of course I’m going to take that chance.”
Himeko doesn’t sigh. That would be undignified and unprofessional. She does, however, make a mental note to blacklist Herta from all future contracts with the Express unless an actual Lord Ravager materialises and decides that the universe is a little too big, or unless Stelle throws a fit about wanting to test the Simulated Universe for ‘Stellar Jades’, whatever those are. Maybe Himeko should ask that Herta pay the Express in those, instead of Credits. Cursing your employer mentally is a marginally more professional option in this situation, and it is always better than cursing your employer out loud.
So you sent us running headlong into danger, into an auction held by some of the universe’s shadiest and most immoral, for something you knew you had the chance of losing to some of the universe’s also shadiest and also most immoral, because the latter was going to rob the former.
“Thank you for your time anyway,” Herta says without preamble, putting a clear end to the conversation, and Himeko lets her mouth click shut, her lips flattening out into an unimpressed expression. “It’s appreciated. Close the door on your way out.”
And of all the things that Himeko dislikes, it appears that all of them are out to get her today—because the moment she closes the door to her room behind her, sighing and preparing for the end of a very, very, very long day, she hears something tumble and slam against a wall, and her head snaps around to see—
—a certain Stellaron Hunter, her hand on the windowsill and the other on her waist. Before she realises it, Himeko already has her briefcase out and poised to attack, brandishing it despite knowing that this is a fight she isn’t likely to win. But she has to try, nonetheless—is Samsa here for revenge? Can Himeko alert the rest of the Express in time? Can she even protect them?
Then, she looks closer, and realises that the hand Samsa is holding to her side is pressed tightly against something, a sickly, dark liquid dripping through her fingers. She’s injured. Himeko breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t let her guard down. And then she remembers dancing with K, the gold filigree of her dark mask glinting down at her from the apex of the hall like a mocking smile, and she hefts her buzzsaw higher.
“K,” Himeko manages to grit out. “Or should I call you Samsa?”
“Just Kafka is fine,” the woman replies sweetly, still managing to smile despite the pallor that has settled in her face, a slow and ominously growing shade of red staining her clothes further. “I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten about me yet.”
Himeko is not particularly generous with her patience—Herta has tested most of it, and she does not have much to spare today of all days, where the universe seems to be out to get her. Against her will, her words come out a little harsher than intended. “That would be a bit hard to do, given that you lot were hanging over the heads of the auctioneers like a flock of bats. Ominous, thieving bats.”
Kafka inspects her fingers idly, and when she tilts her hand, Himeko notes the whiteness of the skin under her fingernails, gleaming like pearls in the low light against the dark blood caked in her palm before she returns it to her side. “Well, it’s not like they were good people anyway. None of the people we target are good people.”
That doesn’t make you the good person, Himeko wants to shoot back.
“...And you’re bleeding all over the Express.”
Kafka puts her free hand to her mouth in mock-affront, but even her movements are starting to slow, despite the impression of confidence and self-assuredness she seems to be trying to convey. Unfortunately, Himeko picks up on that—and feels a twinge of worry before she tamps it out viciously. “Oh, an unforgivable act. I would apologise, but I’m currently trying to learn how to breathe without the glass in my side poking me.”
Himeko opens her mouth again, and then Kafka coughs, her knuckles white on the windowframe of Himeko’s room. “Can I answer the rest of your questions after you patch me up?”
Something in her gaze must belie the suspicion that Himeko still holds onto, because Kafka sighs, settling into a seated position with a wince and a grunt of pain. “...I promise I will. I won’t up and disappear, and abide by all your rules while I’m on the Express.”
She wants to snap at Kafka—to toss her out into the wilds of space, and leave her to fend for herself. But some other part of her soft heart, though long-buried, still remembers how K laughed at some snarky remark Himeko had made under the glittering lights of the chandelier when they were dancing, like a string of silvery bells, and thinks it a shame to watch the hand that was on Himeko’s wrist still and the amused light in her eyes fizzle out, to feel the warmth that was once pressed against her front go cold, bit by bit. That couldn’t be fake. Himeko’s seen plenty of people who laugh like they don’t mean it. Kafka is not one of them, even if everything else about her might be false.
Like the Hunter knows how Himeko’s resolve is wavering—she probably does know, damn her—Kafka looks up at her through her eyelashes, vulnerable and tentative. “That’s what you guys do, isn’t it? You help those who ask for it? Well, I'm asking now. Please help me.”
So that’s what Himeko does, cursing her ineptitude with knowing when and where to call it quits. She grabs her tweezers, and gets to work. If she pulls the bandages slightly too taut out of frustration, or if her face is stormy throughout the entire process, then that’s no one’s business except her own.
Except now the most infamous of all the Stellaron Hunters is in her room, now on the mend and still hopped up on painkillers, so it’s not really her own business anymore. It’s the Express’ business now, which makes it ten times worse. Himeko can handle her own business, as can Welt—it’s the kids that worry her. Beyond the danger that the Hunters pose and the worlds that lie in their bloody wake, she also knows a little of Dan Heng’s background with the Hunter known only as Blade, and all of it serves one conclusion—the Hunters are not to be trifled with, not to be danced with, and certainly not to be tended to.
Kafka tilts her head at Himeko like she can hear her thoughts, a languid movement of her head that makes Himeko recall watching a snake stalk a rabbit through the grass on a long, lazy, endless afternoon years ago. Then the magenta-haired woman turns away, and toys idly with the fluttering end of a bandage, looking entirely unconcerned with her current plight—deep in the den of the people who are supposed to be upstanding members of galactic society ready to hand her over to the proper authorities, and she still looks as unconcerned as a tourist on holiday, glancing around the interior of Himeko’s room with a little ‘ooh’. Himeko wants to grab her by the shoulders out of frustration and shake her—just a little bit.
“I won’t hurt you. Or any other member of your Crew. Or your lovely Conductor.”
“You’re a Hunter,” Himeko snaps back easily, and steadfastly refuses to quake under the weight of Kafka’s gaze. “I don’t think someone who steals for a living can be trusted not to lie.”
“Well, I’m not a Hunter right now.” Kafka casts her a smile, still as suave and charming as Himeko’s heart remembers, skipping a beat in her chest. She wants to rip the traitorous organ out and give it a stern talking-to. “How about that? We’re not the Navigator and Samsa in this room—just Himeko and Kafka, two dance partners who get along decently.”
“Us? Get along?” Himeko snorts at that, tilting the blood bag towards her and inspecting how far along the transfusion is. Well, Kafka won’t be dying anytime soon. Whether that’s a decision that Himeko will regret is another thing. “I don’t think you can say that.”
“But you looked happy on the dance floor,” Kafka sighs, something a little dreamy in her tone like she’s reliving the moment in her head, and Himeko clicks her tongue, dropping the bloodbag like it’s something dirty. Metal clinks on metal, and then Kafka is smiling at Himeko with more softness than she ever thought the Hunter capable of, the corners of her eyes no longer as sharp as Samsa’s—no longer like broken glass, like the Wolf’s mocking smile and Ren’s sword, but something all the more dangerous because of that fact. “Didn’t we have fun?”
Himeko dislikes this—all of it. Samsa in her room, Kafka in her head, the two of them still on that candlelit dance floor under a starry night, twirling to the pulse of her heart. Somewhere, buried deep within, she admits this much—she did have fun. For a moment, she was happy. Perhaps that’s what makes this betrayal hurt so much more.
Her tone is colder than ice when next she speaks. “Why are you here?”
“Something went wrong with the Stellaron’s containment chamber, and we had to be extracted immediately or risk setting it loose.” Kafka answers readily, which makes Himeko more annoyed than she would be in any other scenario—the infamous phantom thief, just giving up her answers with barely any thought. “Wolfie had to make a quick decision on how to get us out, but I was injured too heavily in the crossfire to go with them—the sharks on the transit world we picked would have smelt blood and torn us apart in moments if I was there. So they told me to find a hiding place while they returned to contain our prize and plot a safe route for me to jump back, and here I am.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Himeko presses, and Kafka lets her head loll against the windowframe, her heavy gaze tracing a path up the Navigator’s leg before flicking up to meet her eyes, blinking slowly—she’s a little like a cat, Himeko realises, all facades and sharp claws under soft fur and just a dash of smug insufferability. “Why are you here? In my room?”
“Well, Elio told me I was going to get injured, and the Astral Express is neutral ground. So I picked your room to materialise in, since I thought you’d be the one most likely to hear me out, after all the great time we had.”
“So that’s what I am.” Himeko crosses her arms, and tries not to feel hurt despite the more logical corner of her brain yelling that this really, really, really should not be her priority right now. “A strategic retreat, a ripcord to pull only when you need.”
“Aw, no,” Kafka coos, and Himeko frowns at the saccharine tone. “You’re pretty, and I’m in love with you. Is that better?”
“I’m going to kill you,” Himeko says mildly—and that, somehow, of all things, is what manages to get a laugh out of Kafka for the first time after her graceless arrival on the Express, and against her will, Himeko notes that it is still a lovely sound. There, sat on her windowsill with one leg crossed under the other, draped in the light of the galaxies that Himeko loves so much, Kafka almost looks ethereal, a small smile on her lips and mirth in her eyes like stars, glittering in the depths and tempting Himeko to reach out and see what being burned by a sun might feel like.
Perhaps that’s why Idrila disappeared. Kafka is beautiful; Himeko can admit this much. But if she had met Idrila and seen THEM don the face of Kafka, then even someone as level-headed as Himeko might have done something that she would regret. Kafka sighs, letting her head tip backwards to rest against the wooden windowframe, and for a moment, all is quiet. Only the sound of Kafka’s breathing—still laboured, but not as much as before—and Himeko’s heartbeat in her ears. Absently, she thinks she can hear Xipe’s distant galactic harmony in this moment, plucking notes from the space between the two of them to weave something faint and ephemeral, but completely new.
“I’d love to steal you away,” Kafka finally remarks, and Himeko—doesn’t exactly smack her, still mindful of her injuries, but certainly swats her hard enough for Kafka to feel it. Certainly not enough for the woman to stagger and clutch at the wooden frame for purchase to keep herself upright, though, despite how the thief does exactly that. She wobbles precariously, coming dangerously close to falling from her perch on Himeko's windowsill, and Himeko's fingers twitch unbidden, having to yank herself back from the instinctive reaction to catch Kafka before she falls.
“Ow! What? I’m being honest!”
“I know,” Himeko replies, tepid and bland like that’ll conceal the depths of whatever she feels for this terrible, terrible woman (which is mostly anger but not only that), but she relaxes back into her chair all the same as Kafka settles back into a comfortable sitting position, the white bandages around her hand and upper arm a stark contrast to the overall darkness of Himeko's room. Quietly, Himeko worries that she hasn't actually done a good job of tending to Kafka's wounds. It's been so long since she's had to help someone else, after all—Welt takes care of himself, and so far, the kids haven’t been injured this badly. She hopes it stays that way. “I know. That’s why I hit you.”
"You really are cruel," Kafka sighs dramatically, no teeth and all teasing as she walks her fingers along the edge of Himeko's desk, something hidden in the depths of her tone like a predator lying in wait. "And here I was, thinking you cared about little old me enough to bandage me up and tend to me instead of injuring me further."
"If I really was cruel," Himeko glares, fiddling with her beloved fountain pen as Kafka looks away, whistling innocently. "I'd have shoved you out of the airlock aboard the Express, still bleeding and all. So be grateful for what you get."
"Okay."
Suddenly, Kafka is much too close for comfort, and Himeko's fingers dig into the armrest of her chair, inhaling abruptly as the thief looms above her—and not for the first time this evening, Himeko realises she's forgotten just how capable Samsa is, even if Kafka doesn't show it.
"Thank you, Himeko," Kafka purrs, and makes every jagged inch of every devious word sound like a threat, her grin like a silver blade poised to the Navigator's throat, like a cat that has a mouse pinned under its paw, like a predator closing in for the kill. "I'm very grateful for you."
It's only on instinct that Himeko jabs the knuckle of her thumb into Kafka's side, right over where she knows the violet fabric of Kafka's jacket conceals a large white bandage—after all, she'd been the one to clean and dress that very same wound, less than an hour ago. Though such an attack is likely nowhere near enough to discourage Samsa, the tense atmosphere around them dissipates like oxygen in space all the same, and it is Kafka who backs off, rubbing the sore spot and pouting.
"Rude," Kafka complains lightly, but the smirk on her face and the way her teeth shine in the low light sends a shiver snaking down Himeko's spine, wondering if it really is too late to push this phantom thief out into outer space and be done with this whole affair. She casts an unamused glance at Kafka, who shrugs at her like she’s harmless.
“If you’re well enough to threaten me,” Himeko scowls, and Kafka raises her hands placatingly. “Then I think you’re well enough to leave.”
Despite all of this posturing, Himeko knows the bloodbag is only half empty, and that’s without counting that the stitches that she remembers applying still need time to set, that the heavy-duty painkillers haven’t worn off yet and that throwing Kafka out of the Express would be a certain death sentence for the Hunter. Kafka flutters her eyelashes at Himeko, and just for one blissful, perfect moment, Himeko imagines doing that anyway.
“Don’t frown so much, love. It’s bad for your skin.”
Himeko has to bite down on a retort of ‘and whose fault is that?’ that nearly escapes, shaking her head in exasperation. Kafka’s eyes flick to something right by Himeko’s face, just under her ear, and then she’s rummaging around in her jacket for something like she’s just remembered she has to do something, humming lightly as she does so, and Himeko watches as knives and lockpicks and used grenade rings all clatter to the floor with a slight disdainful curl of her lip. With a flourish, Kafka finally produces something from her sleeve—and Himeko leans away warily at first, half-expecting it to be another flashbang grenade, because that would be terribly in character of her, only to watch as what Kafka’s holding glints in the light of her room.
“It’s a diamond ring. To match your pretty earring.”
The look Himeko directs at Kafka is distinctly, witheringly disappointed—and yet, Kafka is uncowed, still smiling.
Kafka seems immune to her. Himeko doesn’t like that.
“Oh, in fact, it’s Diamond’s ring. You know, the Stoneheart. I’d heard it went missing a while back, but I’m surprised this is where it resurfaced.”
The gaze turns twice as unimpressed as Himeko processes the act of this—Kafka sat on her windowsill reaching out towards Himeko, a ring in her hand and a smile on her face that belies her true intentions or her knowledge of what this means. Whatever it is, Himeko has had more than she likes of Kafka’s teasing, and shuts it down, nearing the end of her rope.
“Is this a proposal?”
Kafka’s eyebrows raise, a keen smile on her face as she wonders if Himeko is falling for the bait. “Do you want it to be?”
Unfortunately for her, Himeko is unswayed, an unsettlingly cheerful smile on her face. “Let me rephrase my question. I’ve changed my mind. Space is too good for you. How do you feel about being pushed into the heart of a star?”
“Ooh! Negatively.”
Much to Himeko’s chagrin, Kafka is still smiling despite the thinly-veiled threat—Aeons, it barely even counts as veiled at this point. It’s a triple-highlighted, double-underlined, italicised and bolded threat, but it still slides off of Kafka like water off of a duck’s back. Pointedly, Kafka sets the ring on Himeko’s table with a clack, and Himeko snorts at that.
“As a thank-you for saving me from bleeding out.”
“I don’t want it. It’ll just bring us trouble.”
“Well, too bad. It’s yours now.”
Infuriating. With a sigh and a creak of her chair as she leans back, Himeko runs a tired hand through her tangled hair and wonders if that easy facade ever drops. She wonders if she digs her fingers into magenta and silk and pulls hard enough, she’ll finally see who—or what—Kafka really is, underneath all of her smoke and mirrors and diversions. Samsa, K, Kafka—all of it is one giant entangled mystery, and Himeko loves mysteries.
No. More accurately, Himeko loves unravelling mysteries. She wonders if it is a star at Kafka’s core, or if it is simply one that has been dying for a long time or long-dead.
Despite all of the time Himeko’s spent staring at Kafka, deep in thought, only now does Kafka point it out, almost as if she’s been savouring the attention for the past few minutes like the last few sips of a fine wine. “Why are you staring at me? Do you think I’m pretty?”
“I’m thinking whether I should have tossed you to the IPC after all,” Himeko replies, running her finger along the edge of her briefcase. If she moves fast enough, she could alert them within six seconds and toggle the security measures designed to lock her entire room down in the case of a hull breach, allowing nothing—no air, no people, and certainly no methods of transport, including teleporting—in or out until it is lifted by her own hand. The only drawback is that it would mean being trapped in the same room as a wanted criminal who’s evidently too happy to try her hand at giving Himeko an aneurysm out of rage. “You’re a safety risk and a wanted criminal.”
“And after everything you said on the dance floor about not being sure if the Hunters were bad?” Kafka gasps in mock-affront, her tone airy and unbothered. It irritates Himeko greatly. But really, everything about Kafka does that. “Oh, darling. I’m hurt. Was the impression I made on you this evening enough to ruin all of that?”
Himeko wonders if all the damage Kafka’s managed to do in the span of a single night will show up in the form of high blood pressure when it comes time for the annual Express’ crew-wide health check.
“The last I checked,” Kafka continues, like she hasn’t noticed—or is pretending not to notice—whatever damage she’s managed to wreak on Himeko’s cardiovascular system. “I haven’t done anything to prove that I’m a safety risk to you and the Express all night, and you don’t seem like the kind of people to assume that all wanted criminals are bad—Aeons knows plenty of powerful organisations in the universe put bounties on those they think pose threats to them.”
Leisurely, her gaze slides to Himeko, languid like honey—like slow-dripping poison, like a spider crawling along its web. “So unless you’ve decided to throw your weight behind the IPC, I doubt you’ll be handing me over anytime soon. I mean, I do have a high bounty on my head, but it’s not like you guys are short for cash, right?”
“We might be,” Himeko replies before she can think, immediately regretting it when Kafka just taps Diamond’s ring again, smiling coolly.
“Then join us,” Kafka winks. “Even after taking our enemies down from behind the scenes with our ill-gotten gains or returning it all, we still have enough to take team-wide holidays to distant planets every six months.”
“Six months?” Himeko’s eyebrows raise at this, and Kafka’s gaze morphs into something more along the lines of curiosity and intrigue, almost sparkling in excitement and good humour. “Your boss sounds terrible to work for. High risk conditions, time off only twice a year, and from what it sounds like, no salary either. Clearly no insurance or universal healthcare too, given how you decided to come to me instead of robbing a hospital, patching yourself up and then warping back to them at your earliest convenience.”
Kafka chuckles at that, and for the briefest of moments, Himeko feels a deep and terrible kinship knit into existence between them, forged in the depths of terrible bosses and irritating clients and colleagues that they are entirely too emotionally attached with to even consider leaving. “Who could’ve guessed? Being a phantom thief is hard work.”
“Then why are you still doing it?”
Himeko expects Kafka to brush this question off with a flippant answer the same way she’s done with everything else this evening. Kafka will say something about how the Hunters have some grand, cosmic duty to rebalance the scales of the universe, Himeko will snap back with a comment on whether they’re even well-fed and well-clothed enough to worry about entire galaxies, and then Kafka will laugh again, and Himeko will try not to stare at the blinding sight, permanent eye damage be damned.
That is not what happens. Kafka seems to take that almost a little too much to heart, tapping a finger against the windowsill she’s sitting on, briefly deep in thought. Himeko almost wants to apologise for asking—her, apologising to a phantom thief, a Stellaron Hunter? What an odd thought—and then the thief smiles, and this feels more threadbare, more wan—almost resigned to her fate. At this, of all things, she seems defeated, where nothing else has managed to dislodge the easy grace that she drapes over herself like a cloak.
“You were going to ask me why I came running to you of all people, weren’t you?”
“That’s not—”
Kafka’s voice is soft, in the way a good knife makes everything it cuts through seem soft, and Himeko closes her mouth. “Do you want to know?”
Of course Himeko wants to know. She wants to know everything about Kafka, about Samsa and the Hunters, because Aeons know where they go next—and if they target the Express, Himeko needs to know how to protect her crew. She wants to know what makes them tick, what makes them behave the way they do and how they pull off their stunts, defying death and capitalism alike—she wants to take them apart like the Express’ engine, to peel them back layer by layer until she can lay her eyes on the heart that keeps them running endlessly, to behold the truth of the matter in all of its grisly and sanguine glory. Silently, she nods.
If people have consciences in the same way they have hearts, then it seems like a universally accepted truth that Samsa has neither.
Kafka, on the other hand…
“The universe thinks of us either as terrible criminals, or glorious heroes. The reason I hedged my bets with you was because you don’t seem to be part of that universe.”
…her expression seems entirely too tender for someone widely regarded as lacking a heart. She speaks of the universe like it is a tragedy waiting to happen, a playwright penning its own demise in real time, a hand on the glass of Himeko’s window like she can reach out into the void of outer space and push the stars back on their rightful paths.
“You said it yourself. We should aim to be impartial arbitrators, right? Solve problems instead of finding fault. I liked that, even if it doesn’t happen in real life. The IPC will give anything to put us behind bars forever, and the History Fictionologists might hold us up as folk heroes, but the truth is, we’re neither. We’re predictable byproducts of a broken system who try to make change any way we can just because we were lucky enough to have the means to do so.”
And then she turns her gaze to Himeko, who stiffens under the weight of it all—for the second time tonight, it seems that she is not the only person who has high expectations of herself. “Which is why you have to be the ones to catch us. You see the full picture, while remaining unswayed by either perception. You guys will be fair when you impart your judgement.”
“And you came to that decision,” Himeko comments incredulously, “after everything I’ve said tonight, about how infuriating you are and how murderous I can be?”
“Or maybe I didn’t mean any of that,” Kafka smiles, and it’s like armour sliding back into place. Briefly, Himeko thinks it a shame, to have glimpsed the truth for just enough time to realise how her previous impressions fall short, the same way the man in the allegory of the cave can never return to his previous existence after seeing the real world. “Maybe I’m just doing this to stall for time while my teammates try to extract me, and maybe I steal just because it’s fun. Who cares about the world, anyway?”
“I do.” Even saying this feels like a small act of rebellion, and Kafka turns to look at Himeko, eyes wide in surprise for a brief moment, and Himeko savours the wonder in her expression.
It morphs into teasing a mere moment later, and Himeko scoffs quietly at how quickly the tables have turned. “Oh, you are a good person.”
“And you’re not,” Himeko shoots back, because it’s easier to say that than it is to accept the designation that Kafka seems entirely too happy to crown her with. Good people don’t act just because no one else steps up, good people are kinder to others than she has been to Kafka all night, and good people don’t reply to sincerity with biting snark and scathing comments, even if that sincerity is from someone that the ordinary ‘good person’ should be diametrically opposed to. Kafka shrugs easily at that, a thread of resignation resurfacing in the line of her shoulders and her expression, and Himeko feels something in her stomach twist again. She doesn’t want to call it guilt, but that might be what it is, as out of place as it is in this conversation.
“Oh, Aeons,” Himeko finally sighs, throwing her hands in the air, and Kafka’s gaze lightens in the moment between one heartbeat and the next, from the weight of a neutron star to the gauzy dimness of the dark space between galaxies. “I can’t do anything right now, and you’re not going anywhere. We’re at an impasse. This is an exercise in futility.”
“Perhaps.” Kafka’s expression takes on a hint of amusement, though it seems more directed at their situation rather than either of them. “It was a fun exercise in futility, though, wasn’t it?”
Steadfastly, Himeko ignores her. “The next time our paths cross, we’ll be enemies. But for tonight, you might be an unwelcome guest aboard the Express, but you are still a guest, and the Express prides itself on being a good host.”
Kafka dips into a little bow, still gallant, one hand on the windowsill for balance. “Thank you. I’m charmed. Where should I sleep, then?”
Himeko looks at her pointedly, before looking at the single bed in her room, and then back to Kafka. Kafka follows her gaze, her expression turning smug as she seems to pick up on an implication that Himeko most definitely does not intend to convey—and Himeko is quick to stamp that idea out.
“All yours,” Himeko snaps, clicking her tongue. Annoyingly, Kafka still brightens at that. “I’m sleeping in my chair tonight. I need to keep an eye on you.”
“Oh, how generous!”
“And you can keep Diamond’s ring,” she adds on a whim, and that coaxes a surprised laugh out of Kafka, the planes of her expression melting into soft edges and gentle features, all smiles as she sits on the edge of Himeko’s bed. “Use it to pay for your next vacation.”
“Then I’ll get you a souvenir,” Kafka smiles back, running her palm over the covers of Himeko’s bed. “What do you say to…ooh, I think your room could do with some decoration. How about a painting from Polka Kakamond’s personal collection? Or Pearl’s?”
Himeko feels any semblance of goodwill evaporate, her expression shuttering immediately as she shoots Kafka a baleful glare. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
“Okay.” Kafka doesn’t even protest, making herself comfortable atop Himeko’s covers and crossing her hands daintily over her stomach, still considerate enough to not make herself entirely at home despite everything that’s transpired this evening. Himeko almost feels a little bad for that, staring at the dark ceiling of her room—and without her noticing, her gaze returns to Kafka, who gives her a little wave when she notices Himeko looking. “Goodnight, Himeko.”
“And stop talking,” Himeko adds half-heartedly, standing up to grab her coat from her closet and toss it at Kafka, who catches it gladly, wrapping it around herself. For good measure, she turns the temperature up a little further just to make sure that Kafka doesn’t catch a cold, because the last thing she needs is to give Kafka another excuse to stay on the Express for longer. “You need to focus and heal.”
Yes. That's the only reason she’s doing all of this. To get Kafka out of her hair as soon as possible. The woman in question nods mutely, still smiling, and then both of them are sinking back into the silence, as Himeko settles into her chair and consigns herself to a long night of watching the wanted criminal in her room.
But sleep looms over her in the end, despite her best efforts—though she’d never admit it out loud, dancing with K and then tending to Samsa and talking to Kafka has left her feeling more tired than she really should be, all of it compounding with the stress of the past few days. Sleep seems like a terrible idea with an intergalactic fugitive in her room, but escaping the siren song of fatigue feels like an impossible task—and so, caught between a rock and a hard place, Himeko casts a careful glance at Kafka one last time, who seems out cold, and then she is closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair.
She thinks she dreams of a better world. One where neither Samsa nor the Navigator have to exist. One where they can just be Himeko and Kafka, no detective work or justice to exact—one where they just have to exist, instead of doing anything.
In that world, they’ll have the time to go on vacation every two months—maybe even every month. Himeko likes the sound of that.
It takes the mattress shifting underneath her for Himeko to stir, shaking loose the haze of sleep that clings to her like cobwebs. Through half-lidded eyes, she sees Kafka, lifting her arm to peer at her side and assessing how well the bandages underneath her half-buttoned white shirt are holding up after a night of sleep. Himeko shifts slightly, rubbing her eyes, and Kafka’s eyes dart towards her, on guard for the briefest moment before her expression breaks into a little smile, buttoning her shirt up like it’s a perfectly respectable item of clothing despite being stained with dried blood and marred with little cuts.
“Are you leaving?”
Sometime in the night, Kafka must have carried her from her chair to her own bed, where she now lies under the covers—and yet, true to her word, Kafka has kept a perfectly proper distance between the two of them. The imprint of her body is still just slightly visible where she was lying atop Himeko’s silk covers, and Kafka’s temporary blanket—the Navigator’s beloved coat—has been hung on the clothes rack by the door with loving care.
“Yeah.” Kafka flicks the pole that the now-empty blood bag hangs from, sending it swinging with a quiet rustle. Himeko closes her eyes again, and soaks in the silence and the knowledge that for the moment, her world will be peaceful again. No more Hunters, no more Herta, and no more…Kafka. “All done. I’m out of your hair now.”
Himeko feels more crestfallen than she thinks she has any right feeling, and blames it entirely on the early hour. The twinge in her heart, the brief disappointed dip of her own expression before she schools it back into perfect neutrality, how lovely Kafka looks putting her hair up with a slight grimace but still alive, at least—all of it must be the early hour’s fault.
“Good riddance.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Himeko insists, and closes her eyes again so she doesn’t have to catch sight of whatever expression it is on Kafka’s face. She hears a non-committal hum, and when next she reopens her eyes, she sees Kafka fiddling with what looks like a teleportation device, inputting new coordinates.
“And don’t come back,” Himeko adds for good measure, and tries valiantly not to let it sound like don’t let me see you like this again. Don’t get hurt again. I won’t always be there to patch you up. Maybe she doesn’t try enough, or perhaps she’s simply too tired, because despite her best efforts, the edges of Kafka’s expression still soften like she can hear what Himeko leaves unsaid, and she crouches down to meet Himeko at eye-level. The sudden proximity doesn’t startle Himeko as much as she thought it would. She’ll blame that on the early hour as well.
“Maybe next time you can scoop me off my feet,” Kafka teases, propping her head up at Himeko’s bedside with an elbow on the mattress, and Himeko feels her half-asleep body tip dizzyingly towards Kafka briefly, before her world rights itself again and her gaze falls back to meet the phantom thief’s, like gravity, like things returning to their rightful place. Last night was an anomaly, like planets tilted and moons askew in space—now, the stars resume their usual orbits, and comets that stilled for a moment feel themselves spurred back into motion, slow but inexorable.
In the simulated light of dawn aboard the Express, Kafka’s eyes are still soft. So is her skin and so is her touch, when she reaches out to drag her fingertips over the line of Himeko’s bare arm, atop the covers.
“Sure,” Himeko finds herself agreeing. “And then I’ll toss you in prison to live out the rest of your days.”
Kafka doesn’t fall for the bait this time—she stands and chuckles, and the sound of her amusement, too, is soft. Himeko almost wants to wrap herself up in it like another blanket, before she catches herself, shaking her head to dislodge the stray, wilful thoughts that seem to plague her the same way Kafka’s presence does. “Okay. If you say so.”
Still, Kafka lingers, and it takes a curious glance from Himeko to prompt her back into movement, the wheels of fate finally whirring back into motion. Even the curtains have to fall, and the actors move on to the next scene in this galactic play—but one last time, Kafka meets her eyes, and smiles.
“Goodbye, my detective. My dance partner. Till next time.”
“Till imprisonment do us part,” Himeko jokes, and enjoys the halfhearted way Kafka’s expression twists into one of petulance and dissatisfaction. And then, just as easily, like smoothing out crumpled paper, Kafka’s expression turns a little wistful, a little hopeful—and that does things to Himeko’s heart that she doesn’t like.
“Dream of me?”
She doesn’t hate this feeling, either—but that’s something for her to worry about when she has a clearer head, a cup of coffee, and no phantom thief in her room. Himeko shakes her head, grimacing. “Oh, Aeons. I hope not.”
Kafka laughs—out loud!—at this, and Himeko remembers silver bells and golden candlelight, remembers moonlight and puddles of rain and quicksilver and wonders when the stars got close enough to touch, or whether it is them who have drawn closer to her. Kafka reaches out and brushes her palm gently over Himeko’s eyes, blotting the light of dawn out.
“You should go back to sleep. There’s no way you’ll be able to catch us if you’re not well rested.”
There isn’t the sound of glass shattering this time, only a quiet humming—and so Himeko relents, and closes her eyes again. Even through her glove, Kafka’s hand is familiarly warm, close enough to block out the simulated sunlight and yet not overly stifling or too heavy on Himeko’s face. Without realising, she finds herself drifting off again.
“Bye. I’ll be waiting for you to come and catch me.”
By the time Himeko wakes again, Kafka is long-gone, the only sign of her presence being the pole with the empty blood bag stored neatly in the corner of her room, half-in-shadow. The other side of the bed has been made, the wrinkles in the covers smoothed out and the dip in the pillow fluffed. Last night may as well have been a dream, Himeko thinks absently, stretching and standing. Everything looks in the same place and just about undisturbed, with even the chairs returned to their rightful positions and the first-aid kit stored back in the closet, where it belongs. Even the diamond ring is gone—and thank the Aeons for that, Himeko thinks for an exasperated moment.
She yawns, and takes her coat off the hook, draping it over her shoulders and shivering as she shuffles into her slippers. Stelle will most likely want bacon and eggs for breakfast while March persists with her granola and yogurt, and Dan Heng will want plain congee. Welt has probably been awake for long enough for Pom-Pom to have made something, which just leaves her and her coffee—
Something rustles uncannily, and then Himeko is wide awake, patting at the various pockets of her coat until she finds out what it is, pulling a new addition out of the compartment closest to her heart.
It’s a magenta card, embossed with silver spiderwebs. Samsa’s calling card, with just one small change from the cards that other intergalactic enforcement agencies have in their evidence archives—a pink lipstick print in the top-right corner. A gentle brush of her fingertip over it reveals that it smudges quite easily, and Himeko catches a familiar whiff of wildflowers, snorting and shaking her head.
Then she puts the card back into her pocket, and decides to turn her attention to more important things, like breakfast, and planning how to catch a trio of intergalactic thieves the next time they meet.