Chapter Text
Terni, Siracusa
March 15, 1097, 10:32 AM
The rainy season of Siracusa invites metaphor. The blood falls as water, perhaps, or the downpour washes away the crimson in the streets for the sake of "decency." An endless rain to beat down on the shoulders of those trapped in the quagmire. A warning from the heavens to the common folk to hide while the wolves on the streets prowl.
For Umiri, it evokes a distant memory. Or perhaps it was a dream? She's not sure anymore.
Of a rainy day on a crowded square in a city that seems so, so alien now. Of mundane chatter about boring everyday lives belying an unspoken tension. Of an unbreakable bond.
Of a red light, and then-
"Miri? Heyyy, Miri? You there?" Even if Fixer's cheer didn't clash with the weather outside, it'd be out of place in the nervous atmosphere of the cafe.
Every customer brave enough to frequent a restaurant in Siracusa was aware that at any moment they'd need to go deaf and blind to whatever business their fellow upstanding citizens were attending to a few tables over. That awareness had only become keener when Umiri walked in a few minutes ago and ordered "her usual," which was, apparently, straight black coffee. An aspect of her "self" that she remains vaguely puzzled by, but is slowly adapting to nonetheless; as is the case with most of Umiri's experiences in Terni these past few months.
"Don't tell me you didn't notice me come in. C'mon, at least give me your usual blank stare! Ignoring me like this seriously hurts my feelings." The Archosauria huffs, crossing her arms and puffing her cheeks dramatically. (It's a provocation, whispers the back of Umiri's mind, from memories more familiar with Fixer than "Yahata Umiri." A dare to the rest of Siracusa to make her take them seriously.)
"You're forgetting something."
"I know I still owe you for the suit, but, c'mon, was that really my-"
Umiri's wolf ears and tail twitch ever-so-slightly. A sensation that she's mostly stopped feeling, with how often it occurs. "U." She slowly sips her coffee and represses the urge to grimace. Objectively speaking, the coffee is well-brewed with a rich flavor profile. Pity that it's so strong that Umiri can't stand it.
"What?"
"U-mir-i. We're business associates. Please use my full name." Professionalism is paramount during work meetings, in Umiri's opinion, even though she does technically live with Fixer. Really, "Yahata-san" would be more appropriate here, but that would be insane to ask of someone in Siracusa.
"Fiiiine. You never used to be so particular." Another huff. Fixer flops over the table; her thick, scaled tail wrapping around her leg to ease the pain. She always jokes that it's a cosmic injustice that a girl so young and pretty is subjected to an old woman's aches and pains in her knee during the rainy season. "Where do you get off giving yourself a fancy... what was it, a Yanese name?"
Umiri almost says "Japanese," pauses, then frantically sorts through the jumbled collection of places on Terra wedged in the crevices of her brain until she finds somewhere appropriate. "Higashinese. And do I look Siracusan to you?" The question is less rhetorical than it seems.
"Not really, I guess? But you sure carry yourself like one."
That stings. "Then let's do business like Siracusans."
"Small talk is a time-honored mob tradition!"
"Very well. The weather's awful, isn't it?"
"Don't get cute with me. Especially when it's your attitude that's been awful lately." Fixer jabs an accusatory finger at Umiri. The effect is diminshed by the way her upper half is still lounging on the table like a sunbathing lizard.
"How so?"
"I get back from Volsinii to find you're just gone. I was worried sick that some wise guys had finally gotten the jump on you!"
"No, you weren't. You've never doubted my ability to handle myself." Every time Umiri meets Fixer like this, she can't help but be reminded of Nyamu. Another anchor to a life that seems more and more like a distant, happy dream. Maybe that's why Umiri bothers going through this odd ritual even though they live together and could really just talk business over breakfast; at least on the scant few days that Fixer is actually home instead of rushing to and fro across the city.
"Then you come crawling back without so much as a 'hi, how was the trip,' begging for work with tears in your eyes because you took out a loan to buy some fancy guitar. What do you think you are, a Columbian rockstar?!"
"Bass guitarists are almost never frontwomen."
"Honestly, I'm over here wondering why you didn't just rob those stupid loan sharks blind and dump their bodies in a ditch."
"That wouldn't be 'decent.'"
"Don't starting acting high and mighty on me just because you've done a few jobs for the Venezias. We're lone wolves, Umiri."
"It's their town. And I've gotten an offer from them to sign on officially."
Fixer straightens, and the air changes. A haggard Perro gets up and moves to the other side of the cafe. "Don't tell me you're considering taking them up on it." Umiri feels Fixer's eyes boring into her.
"No." The atmosphere slackens. Whatever Fixer was looking for in Umiri, she's satisfied. Umiri hears the Perro breathe a sigh of relief, though he still doesn't come back to his previous seat. "The workplace culture of the famiglia is too toxic for the delicate heart of a maiden."
"Pffft." Giggling, Fixer relaxes for the first time since she walked into the cafe. "Every time I think that you've changed forever when I wasn't looking... there you are again, Miri." Her voice is soft. An unguarded tenor, one that "Yahata Umiri" is mostly unfamiliar with.
"U-mir-i."
"Whatever. I get that you're lonely without me, and that you went through something while I was out, but can we cut out the 'business associates' bit? It's not funny anymore."
Another sip of the incredible coffee that Umiri... well, she's growing to like it. More memories of countless afternoons spent just like this filter through the veil. From the last time that they met before "Umiri Calendario" vanished, all the way back to when they were still kids scavenging coffee tins to boil water in and talk "like real wise guys." Alien emotions creep into Umiri's awareness. Nostalgia for when the days were simpler and Fixer wasn't so busy, a melancholy wish to share the same bed every night again.
She doesn't have the heart to swat those tender feelings away. Never has. "Fine. How was your vacation, honey?"
"Ugh. Somehow that's even weirder. Let's get down to business."
Terni, Siracusa
March 15, 1097, 11:24 AM
The problem, Umiri muses as she bars some squealing wise guy's arm over her shoulder, is that "Yahata Umiri" doesn't make any sense. His elbow splinters with the tiniest pressure, bone fragments poking through skin, but it's easy enough that it doesn't break her train of thought. Which is the issue at hand.
"Yahata Umiri" has more purchase in her memories than "Umiri Calendario," true enough. An ordinary girl from a considerably more ordinary world—the fact that she considers Earth ordinary, tossing the comatose rookie into his shocked compatriot, is proof enough that the bassist of Ave Mujica is more real than the lone wolf for hire. Right?
Three come at her, knives frantically swinging and stabbing in a shoddy, panic-driven mockery of proper form. Amateurs, and yet, and yet, the way she can coldly call these men fighting for their lives "amateurs" is indisputable proof that she's a cold-blooded killer. A profession that "Yahata Umiri," an average high schooler with carefully-honed bass skills lucky enough to have made it big on the music scene, should blanch at. "Yahata Umiri" would probably evacuate her guts if she saw the way that Umiri bats aside the unprofessional knifework and drives her foot deep enough into a mobster's chest to shatter his ribs. The shards pierce his heart. He coughs up blood, once, before his life gutters out.
One of remaining wise guys screams and runs. The other charges, howling obscenities and crying. It's all just business, from her perspective. They're all professionals here, doing a job that they're paid for. What's the big deal?
"Family," she supposes. Famiglie, rather; something that Umiri doesn't understand. Coin can't buy the loyalty of blood... although it can purchase the services of an assassin, a niche in Siracusa's curious ecosystem of violence that Umiri has no problem filling. She picks up the last man standing by the throat. There's almost an epiphany there, as she bashes his skull against the rain- and blood-slick wall. Some emotional breakthrough that'll unravel this tangled knot. He spits at her, so Umiri does it again, harder this time. The walls are now slick with rain, blood, and grey matter.
Maybe it's not family, but bonds. Friends. An ordinary life, yet one spiced with enough drama and intrigue to keep her attention. Some fairy in the Castle of Dreams obliged her, and either they mucked it up and left Umiri Calendario with a lifetime of memories that aren't hers, or Umiri was so desperate to cling to the fantasy that she filled in the blanks when she awoke.
A neat and tidy explanation, Umiri concludes when she marches up to a whimpering crossbowman flat on his ass. He's too terrified of her to pull the trigger. "Hello. This is your boss's second warning, kindly extended from the Venezia. Please take your business elsewhere or negotiate with the don to integrate with the famiglie. There will be no third notice." A pause. Right, she should say something to let him know that it's safe to leave. Reassuring, hopefully, so he's coherent enough to get message across to the rest of his gang. "Farewell. Have a good day."
Yowling like a Feline, he scampers away. Umiri considers telling him that he's soiled himself to be polite, but on reflection, that would come across as adding insult to injury. The poor idiot doesn't need any more bruises to his ego today.
Fixer is already at work when Umiri turns around. She leans on her cane, finger extended lazily toward the pile of corpses. One's fingertips crumble to ash. Umiri raises an eyebrow; Fixer must be in a tizzy over something if she's working that quickly. And smoking while she's at it.
"Good grief." With the same professionalism with which she dispatched her foes, Umiri marches up to Fixer and snatches the cigarette from her mouth. "If you need energy, drink one of my protein shakes instead. They're delicious."
Fixer rolls her eyes. "S'not like my Infection will get worse after just one cigarette. Besides, since when do you make protein shakes?"
"They're a crucial component of a growing young woman's diet, especially if she leads an active lifestyle." It's only after the words leave Umiri's mouth that she realizes that, yet again, the precarious tower of reasoning that she's built to justify "Yahata Umiri" away has disintegrated like the knuckles of the corpse that Fixer is focusing on. Fixer's Arts start slowly, but they'll accelerate soon enough. More than a half dozen bloody murders, enough to send a clear message, are about swirl down the drain without leaving a trace. There's a reason why the Venezias have started turning to Umiri and Fixer in particular to solve these little problems. Decency is everything, after all.
"Riiight. You picked up some seriously weird habits while I was gone, U-mir-i."
"Looking after my health is perfectly normal."
"Whatever. Give me a few minutes to wrap this up, then we'll hit the bricks."
An awkward silence follows. Guilt tugs at Umiri's heart for the wall that's sprung up between "Yahata Umiri" and the girl next to her when there was nothing standing in the way between "Umiri Calendario" and Fixer before Umiri "arrived." Or before Umiri had her delusional break. Whichever was the reality, Umiri chastises herself for failing to get over it. Fixer needs her, after all.
To distract herself, Umiri pulls up their on her terminal. Groceries, fitting services, rent and utilities, tailoring, Oripathy suppressants for Fixer... they're all set for the next month. That'll give Umiri some time to sort out her- wait.
She squints, noticing one item just barely out of scope of their current funds. Well, they could afford it if Umiri gave up adding to her wardrobe, but that's out of the question.
"Ah."
"Wassup?" Fixer asks as they both watch the man's pierced heart fall to nothing inside his shattered ribcage.
"We don't have enough money for our estrogen."
After a moment, both of them sigh in unison. "Ugh. I was hoping to avoid this."
"I can always pick up another shift at the bar-"
"No, no. We both need a break." A groan. "Lucky for us, I got another job lined up. Didn't want to pull the trigger on it, though. The vibes are all off."
"I murder people and you dispose of their bodies for a living. Our vibes are off."
"Not like that. It's... how do I put this..." There goes the corpse's upper torso. Only a matter of time before the disintegration spreads to the others now. "You have a fan."
"I see." Beat. "I didn't think our work was high profile enough to inspire a copycat killer. Or visible enough, for that matter."
"No, no, I mean-" Fixer waves her hand. "An actual fan, apparently. That's what she calls herself. Willing to put up a lot cash for a 'handshake event,' whatever that means. It should cover our hormones for this month, if nothing else."
So this is what Uika had to deal with when she worked as an idol. If Uika is real. Which Umiri is still not certain of. "If we're getting paid, then there's no harm. If it's a trap, I'll handle it."
"..."
"..."
"...it's weird, though."
"Yes. It's very weird."
"But if the Venezias want to tie you down, they'll freeze us out until you give in..."
"And if we help their competitors, decency or not, they'll take it as an insult. If we want to maintain a professional relationship with them, we can't take any loud jobs while we're in this city for a while."
"So. Either you tend bar for a while to help us get by for the next month while I scout to find our next destination, or this, uh, 'handshake event' thing." Fixer bites her lip. The last of the corpse disappears. The others are fraying at the seams.
"...and I... don't want to part ways again when you only came back a month ago." A genuine sentiment, backed by the full weight of Umiri Calendario's feelings. Some of Yahata Umiri's, too.
"Uggghhhhh."
"Hm."
""Let's do it.""
Terni, Siracusa
March 15, 1097, 2:58 PM
The meeting was set to take place in a public park in the heart of Venezia territory. According to Fixer's background check, the client is a sketchy character from out of town. As in, entirely out of Siracusa. Maybe some of the famiglie would stoop to hiring outsiders to take out Umiri, but not in the Venezias' town. This was as safe as it could get.
Umiri still can't suppress her anxiety. Not just because of the odd nature of this affair; she couldn't shake the distinct feeling that she hadn't prepared enough. Like this was an event to put on a tour schedule, not to sloppily append to the end of a live to make ends meet.
Her thoughts are interrupted by a sense that whoever was coming to meet her, they were doing it quickly. Less a "sense" and more a "functioning two pairs of ears;" they were not being at all subtle about it.
Nor is there anything subtle about the green blur that launches herself at Umiri, crying in a voice that shatters any delusion that "Yahata Umiri" is just a fantasy,
"Umiri-chaaaaaaaaan!"
All of her reflexes fail her. Umiri Calendario should react quickly, strike the ambusher out of the air on instinct, lock all of her limbs until she gets the sense to back off, and yet... and yet...
The only thing that Umiri can do is to pet Mortis's hair as she clings on with all of her fragile strength.