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Fifteen days have passed since Kafka’s last mission, a new record for one of Elio’s best operatives. When one works for Destiny’s Slave, there is hardly ever time to rest—not like this, at the very least.
Ever turning, time never stops, and destiny propels forward, much like a train en route to its next destination. Space continues expanding, an eternal dance of creation and destruction. The Fragmentum spreads, Stellarons take root, scripts are produced, and there is work to be done. It’s a tale as old as time.
The first few days were quite nice. Kafka spent many hours pampering herself. She plucked her eyebrows, filed and painted her nails, and used a special scrub she bought during her last mission. For an extra hint of romance, she even lit a few candles and tossed rose petals into her bath. When she got bored of lounging around, she organized her record collection and did some shopping.
Kafka grew so stir-crazy one dreadful afternoon, she even tried baking. Sam was in charge of cleaning up the aftermath of her experiments. Ever so kind and understanding, they said her cupcakes were divine. (Sam has no tastebuds. Bless their heart.)
One lonely Monday morning, when Kafka finds herself missing Sam because Elio has blessed them with a script detailing all the ways they will derail the government of some distant world, Blade warps into the ship looking a little battered but relatively unharmed.
When he misses a step on his way into the lounge, Kafka sweeps him up in her arms. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He must’ve gone days without sleeping.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we, Bladie?” she suggests while helping him regain his balance. She knocks on Silver Wolf’s door on the way to her room. “Bladie’s home!” she sings.
When Kafka unlocks her room, she makes a beeline for the bathroom and waits for the tub to fill with water. Blade observes her without saying a word, casually leaning against the doorframe. In the mood for theatrics, she gives him the candle and rose treatment. If Blade has an issue with all the pomp and circumstance, he doesn’t make it evident.
Kafka helps him undo his bandages, fingers gently running over the myriad of scars splattered across his back. She pokes at his side, right below a wound that’s red and inflamed. “Make sure you wash this and then disinfect it,” she says.
He nods and submerges himself in the tub while Kafka collects the old bandages and drops them in a trash bin. She rummages through her cabinet and pulls out a fresh roll and leaves it on the counter for him.
“Were you lonely?” Blade asks after lathering some shampoo into his hair. When Kafka doesn’t respond right away, he stops washing his hair and gives Kafka a look she’s never been able to fully discern.
“A little,” Kafka confesses. It’s a half-truth, and she suspects he knows. “Sam left a few days ago, and Silver Wolf has been—what did she say—grinding an event or something like that.”
Blade turns to her. “I heard you… baked?”
“They told you about that?”
“Sam said they were good.”
Kafka laughs in surprise. “Well, they lied.”
“Sam doesn’t lie.”
“Well, Sam doesn’t have tastebuds.”
Blade hums and then resumes washing his hair. Kafka leans over the edge of the tub. “Want any help?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Kafka nods and then closes the door behind her.
For all intents and purposes, Kafka has been on… vacation? Paid leave? Perhaps house arrest would be more accurate since Elio has technically forbidden her from leaving the ship—except for that one time she convinced Silver Wolf to hide any traces of her escape.
Maybe this is Elio’s way of punishing her for the stunt she pulled on Caesarea. When she complained about it to Sam, they simply shrugged and turned away from her. “I warned you, Kafka. Blowing up the clock tower wasn’t worth it,” is all they said before running after Silver Wolf because of some game they’ve been playing together.
Kafka leans back in her couch and crosses one leg over the other. Her hand elegantly waves in the air to the rhythm of the concerto playing from her phonograph. Illuminated by one of the many moons orbiting Judith-II, Kafka allows herself a moment of refuge in her room and indulges in the new record she purchased at the last planet she visited—one of the many claimed by the Klimt Republic.
There is cause for celebration, after all. Soon, she will be free from this ship. A new script has arrived, and the premise is… fascinating.
Heavy strings gradually crescendo into a flurry of arpeggios, and Kafka nods along in half-time. When her companion joins her by the window, her lips tug into a soft smile. His shadow looms over her, and she almost chuckles when he lets out a gruff sigh.
“You’re just in time for the climax, Bladie.” Kafka raises her other hand and contorts her fingers, mimicking the grip of a well-practiced violinist. She draws an imaginary bow through the air, and her fingers move on their own as though she knows this piece like the back of her hand. The tune vibrates in her throat as she hums along, body swaying with the music.
Blade gazes down at her, arms casually crossed. Water trickles from his hair, the scent of Kafka’s jasmine shampoo still wafting off of him. “You like this one,” he remarks.
“It tells a story,” Kafka says. She pats the space beside her. “Sit, will you?”
Sighing, Blade obliges and takes a seat. He turns his body away from her, and Kafka picks up the wide tooth comb resting in her lap. If Elio had told her that she would one day help Blade comb his hair, she may have scoffed in his face, but to Kafka’s delight, this scenario is one that has become routine for them.
“You used to play,” he says.
Kafka hums in acknowledgment and runs the comb through his tangled locks. “And I was good,” she replies. A memory from a time long past glimmers in the distance, the light of the moon bouncing off of the broken violin that sits in the corner of the room. “Do you understand our goal for this mission?” she suddenly asks.
Blade nods. “It is one of Elio’s more straightforward scripts, but…”
Kafka laughs dryly. “Elio was really excited about this one. It sounds like it’ll be a fun time. Looks like destiny has a sense of humor, don’t you think?”
“I have no interest in what the script requires,” Blade huffs. “Surely there are other ways…”
Shaking her head, Kafka clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You know how it is, Bladie. Your date with destiny awaits.”
“My date with you, you mean.”
Kafka smiles. “You make it sound like a bad thing. I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“I have never said such a thing.”
“No need to act so cold.” Kafka purses her lips and hands him the comb. “Fix your hair yourself then.” A strangled noise escapes his throat, and Kafka chuckles in response. “So easy to read. You know, it wouldn’t hurt to be more honest from time to time.”
Blade’s eyes flutter shut when the comb lightly scratches his scalp. Then he frowns. “I don’t quite see how I fit into this… scenario. It sounds like an operation you could pull off on your own.”
Kafka hums. “Perhaps. But there are less variables to worry about if I bring you with me. A date does wonders to deter trouble.”
“Trouble? It sounds as though that’s our job.”
When she laughs this time, it’s genuine; a light and bubbly sound that makes Blade’s eyes soften around the corners.
“So what should we call each other? Honey? Sweetheart? Babe? Darling?”
“…Up to you.”
“I think darling sounds nice.” Kafka reaches for the shears and snips off the dead ends with deft precision. The music quiets, plunging them into a comfortable silence.
Blade reaches for his phone, and he scrolls up and down the screen, eyes narrowing at the text. Occasionally, he’ll zoom in on something with an incredulous look in his eyes.
“Reviewing the script again, darling?”
To her amusement, Blade’s entire body tenses the moment the word darling passes through her lips. “Can that not wait for when we’re actually there…”
“A little practice wouldn’t hurt, especially if you’re worried about blending in.” Kafka pouts and motions for him to turn towards her.
With a sigh, Blade shifts in his seat until he is facing her, and Kafka brushes his bangs away from his eyes. He remains razor-focused on the script in his hands while she trims his bangs and the strands of hair that fall over his shoulders.
Kafka leans back and admires her handiwork. Satisfied, she smiles. “Looking good, if I do say so myself.”
It’s a shame he doesn’t see what she sees. He’s a terribly beautiful man with a jaw as sharp as his sword. His hair tangles easily but is soft and has a healthy sheen. Toned muscles, a darling waist…
If Elio had told her that she would one day have such a beautiful and fragile teammate, she would’ve located and killed him sooner. Much sooner, destiny be damned.
Perhaps this is one of Kafka’s flaws. She wants and wants and wants.
She wants to fill that void in her heart, she wants to see the outcome Elio has foretold—for her, for everyone, for the universe. She wants more coats, more perfumes, more lipsticks, more records.
One day, Kafka decided to surround herself with beauty. One day, she realized that the line which separates humans from devils is more blurry than she thought. One day, she met a wandering corpse and realized that there are other kinds of beauty she has yet to discover, kinds she can nurture with her bare hands.
A beauty that will live for her. Listen to her.
“You’re beautiful,” she blurts out.
Blade’s grip on the script loosens, and his eyes flicker down to hers for a moment before darting to the side. “Thank you… darling,” he mutters.
It’s strained, but Kafka finds that she doesn’t care. The fact that he’s trying is endearing enough on its own. He clears his throat, and Kafka watches him with increased interest as his ears turn a faint shade of red.
“Don’t worry, Bladie. You’ll get the hang of it.” She pats his arm before rising to her feet. “Now let’s see how the clothes I picked out fit. I had them tailored for you during our pit stop in Danae.”
Blade nods, and Kafka feels excitement bubbling in her chest at the thought of seeing him in the suit she ordered. The ensemble was quite the find. She can only hope that the jacket remains unscathed when they return from their mission.
“If you get nervous, just let me do the talking, okay?” Kafka latches onto his arm and flutters her lashes.
“Thank you, darling,” Blade replies.
Kafka’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’ve already improved so much in such a short period of time, dearest. You’ll do just fine.”
“Can it not wait until you two are actually there?” Silver Wolf’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Ugh. I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this.”
“Don’t listen to her, darling. Clearly our practice has paid off if we can get a reaction like that out of her.”
Silver Wolf rolls her eyes. “Blade, I can’t believe you of all people are actually playing along.”
One thing Kafka has learned about her companion over the years is that he has what one could call… a competitive streak. Despite his initial discomfort, after a little goading, getting him to cooperate was quite easy.
All she needed to do was suggest the possibility of Sam fulfilling the role of her spouse instead, and Blade had gruffly replied, “The script says that I will be your partner for this mission, and they’re an automaton. That's ridiculous,” and that was that.
Perhaps destiny really does have a sense of humor.
And if her eyes aren’t deceiving her right now, Blade actually looks amused.
“Playing along? How absurd. She is my wife.”
Kafka fights back a laugh. “Can’t you feel the love, Wolfie?”
In a fit of rage, Silver Wolf puts down her handheld and stomps off into the cockpit. “I’m dropping you two off before I go insane.” She slams the button with a fist and disappears behind the automatic doors.
True to her word, Silver Wolf drops them off in an inconspicuous part of town, and according to the script, they’re right on time. Kafka takes a step back and examines her partner. She smooths out his jacket, straightens his bow tie, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
“Almost forgot…” Kafka reaches into her purse and procures a small silver brooch and attaches it to the lapel of his jacket. It’s identical to the silver butterfly that adorns the lapel of her favorite coat. “Now we match.”
Blade studies the brooch for a moment, and Kafka follows his gaze. There’s a faint glimmer of light in his eyes as he traces the contour of the butterfly. He doesn’t speak. He simply grunts in approval, and that’s more than she could’ve ever asked for.
Like they practiced, Blade holds out his arm for her, and Kafka happily accepts it. They stroll out of the alley together, their steps perfectly in sync. When Blade first joined the Stellaron Hunters, he always trailed behind her like a wounded puppy. Now he walks beside her. When had such a change occurred, she wonders.
The air is chilly, but not unbearable. People are out and about, enjoying a calming evening after a long day of work. A group of excited women pass them by, a multitude of shopping bags hanging from their arms. The sound of live music is carried by the wind, a rendition of a familiar tune being played on a guitar.
Judith-II is a nice planet, Kafka thinks. It’s a healthy, bustling metropolis. Its many moons shine bright in the distance, and the stars twinkle from behind the clouds. Skyscrapers cut through the sky, and street lamps light the way to the docks.
“It is disappointing… We will not be able to spend much time here.” Blade stops in his tracks, and Kafka raises a questioning brow. A beat of silence passes. “I heard there is a large record store here… along with a boutique.”
“How thoughtful of you. Thank you, love.” Kafka’s eyes twinkle in amusement when he clears his throat and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Looks like this pet name is another good choice. Darling, dearest, love. What other reactions can she elicit from this stoic man of hers? “If it’s safe to return after the mission, I would love to check them out. What do you think?”
“I am not opposed…” For once, remains unsaid. Blade directs his gaze towards the docks, eyes jumping from couple to couple as they begin to line up. “Shall we head over?” He gently nudges Kafka forward. “It looks like it is almost time.”
When the ship arrives, Kafka whistles approvingly. “Looks fancy, don’t you think?” Blade grumbles something indecipherable and gnaws on his lower lip. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I am… concerned,” he confesses, fiddling with the bandages on his hand, nail picking at the edges. Kafka nudges the restless hand aside and replaces it with her own. Stop that, she wants to say. “What if they don’t believe I am your husband?”
“We’ll be fine, Bladie. Trust the script. And if not the script—if not Elio—then trust me. And if we make a mess of things, we can just kill everyone."
He exhales, and Kafka tightens her grip on his arm. “Okay,” he relents.
When they board the ship, they swiftly relocate to their room. Kafka sits on the bed, testing out the mattress, and gives a pillow an experimental pat. “Comfy.”
“Is it to your liking?” Blade asks.
“Mmhm. It’s plush. Very high quality.” Kafka rests her chin in the palm of her hand and hums. “We’ll be stuck here for four days. We should make the most of our circumstances, don’t you think? This is quite the expensive cruise.”
Blade crosses his arms. “According to the script, the host’s exclusive dinner party will take place on the last day.”
“We’ll need to get on his good side as soon as possible. Let’s hope he’s easy to get along with. The host has close ties to the IPC, and the ship’s final destination will be Pier Point.” Kafka chuckles to herself. “Don’t forget that the ship will also be making a quick stop at the Xianzhou Zhuming on day three.”
“What?”
“Did you forget? Do we, by chance, have different scripts? Anyway, apparently they’re docked somewhere in this star system. Something about porcelain? Forging? It’s a… scientific exchange of some kind.”
“I see…” Blade stares at his hands, eyes tracing over the bandages.
Kafka sighs before rising to her feet. “Why don’t we get out there and get this party started?”
Blade grunts in agreement.
When they exit their room, they find that there is a crowd of people gathered in the reception area. The layout of the ship is similar to other cruise liners in this galaxy, and the map Silver Wolf provided them proves to be as accurate as ever—not that she’s ever doubted their resident hacker.
Kafka grabs some champagne and shoves a glass into Blade’s hand. “It’ll make you look… preoccupied,” she whispers against the shell of his ear. “Wait here. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
She weaves through the crowd with ease, taking stock of all of the passing conversations—talks of a not-so-secret affair, a trade deal that’s about to go through, an emotionally unintelligent husband, and a delicious roast duck which is rumored to be on tonight’s dinner menu.
According to Elio’s script, if she makes her way to the back corner of the room, she’ll find the host conversing with two men. Both are good friends of his. Pick one and learn what you can is what the script asked of her. Easy enough, she thinks.
Kafka swirls her champagne before taking a small sip. In a few seconds they should go their separate ways. There is a table off to the side with hors d’oeuvres. Start heading there and accidentally bump into Marvin.
Marvin, however, is the path of least resistance, the script had said.
Marvin has been friends with the host, Silas, for a good number of years now. He’s a trusted confidant but is rumored to have loose lips around beautiful women, especially after having a couple drinks.
Follow the target. Bump against his arm with your elbow. Act surprised and strike up a conversation.
When her target begins to move, she saunters over to him, grabs an empty plate, and subtly bumps her elbow against his arm.
“Oh!” she exclaims, bringing a hand over her mouth in shock. “I am so sorry. How clumsy of me.”
“It’s alright,” Marvin says, flashing a grin. “It’s a bit crowded in here. Stuff like this is bound to happen, no?”
“Yes, of course,” Kafka replies, purposefully drawing out every vowel. She giggles. “I must say… these hor d’oeuvres look absolutely incredible. The presentation is stunning.”
She picks up a the first two she lays eyes on, neatly arranging them on her plate. One for me, one for Bladie.
They chat idly while filling their plates with food. Kafka makes a point to laugh every now and then, feigning genuine interest.
“Why don’t we chat some more over there?” Marvin asks, pointing towards one of the large pillars in the room.
Kafka follows after him. “That sounds lovely.” She turns her head slightly and sees Blade staring at her from across the room. She smiles and waves at him, mouthing the words be back soon.
“That’s… a lot for one person,” Marvin points out, jutting his chin towards her plate.
Kafka smiles. “Oh, this? It’s not all for me. I told my husband that I would grab some for him. He’s not picky, so I figured I would just grab two of everything.”
“Everything here is delicious. Can’t go wrong with any option.”
He doesn’t address the fact that she has a husband. In her peripheral vision, Kafka can see Blade inching closer and closer. She imagines him expressing a variety of emotions. Silently sulking. Seething with jealousy. Distraught with curiosity. All wishful thinking, of course. Then she redirects her attention to Marvin, occasionally nodding along as he continues to speak.
Marvin is a great conversationalist, easily segueing from topic to topic. He’s quite affable, she discovers, and very engaging. She studies him carefully, eyes trailing down the sleeve of his coat. It’s a deep, midnight blue with a gorgeous sheen. Expensive. Taken care of. Velvet.
“I must say… My apologies for such a sudden change of topic, but that coat of yours is absolutely gorgeous. Where did you find such a beauty?”
“Ah, I see you have quite the eye for quality, miss…? I’m so sorry. I don’t think I quite caught your name earlier.”
“Schwarz,” she replies while rotating the glass of champagne in her hand until the light of the chandeliers hits her wedding band just right. Marvin turns his head away from the glare. “Call me Mrs. Schwarz.”
“Yes, of course… Mrs. Schwarz, for you to be able to discern just how special this coat is… Why, we must be cut from the same cloth!”
Kafka laughs. “I am an avid collector of coats, and velvet just so happens to be my favorite type of fabric. I love it so much my husband actually had a velvet coat custom-made for our anniversary last week.”
It’s not far from the truth. For her birthday this year, Blade had done exactly that. He contacted her favorite seamstress with a request she couldn’t possibly turn down—the money was too good to pass up on, after all—and the rest is history.
“Well, congratulations on the anniversary!” Marvin exclaims, raising a glass. “A velvet coat sounds like a beautiful gift—but not as beautiful as you, of course. Actually, this coat of mine was a gift as well.”
“Really?”
“My good friend Silas gifted this to me. We’ve been friends for… years. I woke up to a mysterious package on my birthday. He had this shipped to me with a handwritten note. I never pass up a chance to wear this. Speaking of Silas, have you met him yet? He is our host.”
Kafka shakes her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to speak with him yet. My husband and I wanted to give him our regards and thank him for hosting. I’ve been having such a great time so far. Is he a busy man?”
Marvin frowns. “I’m afraid so. In fact, he just left to make some calls. Okay, how about this… It has been such a pleasure getting to know you, and I’m sure Silas would love to meet you as well.” He takes a sip of his champagne and sets it down on a nearby table. “As you probably already know, there will be a performance tomorrow night—the ballet—and Silas will be in attendance. Why don’t you sit with us? Find me outside the theater, and I will take care of the rest.”
“Why, thank you so much for your kindness and consideration. I really appreciate it.”
“Darling.” A warmth spreads across Kafka’s back, and a raspy voice echoes in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. The good kind. “I have been looking for you.”
“I was just about to grab you. I’m sorry for leaving you alone for so long… But also take a look,” Kafka says, holding up her small plate. “I grabbed you some treats.”
Blade’s gaze falls on the assortment of hor d’oeuvres. “Thank you, darling. I appreciate it. Join me in the observation room?”
Kafka smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It was nice getting to know you, Marvin. I look forward to our next meeting. Now, if you will excuse us…”
To her surprise, a hand falls to her waist. Blade silently nods at Marvin before guiding Kafka towards the observation room. Its interior is made almost entirely of glass, save for the floor and the occasional pillar.
The Yamazaki star cluster is one of the more stunning ones. There’s something about this part of the galaxy that makes the stars shine a little brighter. When they find an empty table, Kafka laments the sudden chill left in the wake of where Blade held her. The warmth of his hand lingers on her waist.
Blade takes the plate from her hand and sets it on the table. Kafka watches as he leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and his lips pull into a scowl.
“You’re upset,” Kafka says.
“I am not upset.”
“Did I take too long?” Kafka tilts her head. “I noticed you watching me from afar.”
“You said fifteen minutes. You went off-script.”
This gets a rise out of her—equal parts indignant and amused. “By only five minutes! You could’ve joined us if you started feeling lonely. I didn’t know you’d get this antsy if I left you to your own devices. Or is it… something else?”
Blade looks relatively calm and collected. His arms are crossed, and his grip appears loose and relaxed. His breathing is steady. Telltale signs of a Mara flare-up are nowhere to be found, which means he really is upset with her for one reason or another.
“Are you… jealous?”
“No.” Blade regards her with an impassive gaze, but the subtle twitch of his eye betrays him.
“Darling…” With a pout, Kafka scoots closer to him, until their legs are tangled beneath the table. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t abandon you like that again. Promise.”
He sighs. “It seemed as though you were getting carried away.”
Kafka chuckles. “I was just trying to get on his good side. It wasn’t anything particularly memorable. Don’t worry, dearest. I’d rather chat with you.”
There’s an almost innocent sort of charm he embodies when he gets this way. Kafka smiles, playfully wiggling her fingers and brandishing her wedding ring. “Besides, you’re my husband, are you not?” When his expression softens, she laughs, and her smile reaches her eyes.
Conversations with Blade often feel like a battle. The right words and actions are bullets that gradually chip away at his armor. Shattering his defenses rewards Kafka with gifts more beautiful than all of the stars in the galaxy.
Sometimes he makes expressions she’s never seen from him before. Sometimes he says things that make her heart flutter. They’re often simple things, too. Blunt but kind. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, he’ll even blush.
Memories accumulate over the years in the form of dusty old tapes and rolls of film. Kafka replays these moments in her head over and over again. The soft shuttering sound of a roll of film in the projector cuts through the silence of the theater, and she sits back, losing herself in the spectacle of it all.
Dreams. Kafka dreams of many things. Sometimes she dreams about spilling wine on her favorite coat. There are nights where she dreams about New Babylon—what it once was, what it could have been, what the destruction was like when the Stellaron had its way.
On rare occasions, Kafka dreams about her companions.
She dreams about Silver Wolf teaching her how to play a game. The Silver Wolf in her dreams is oddly patient. Her eyes narrow in frustration every time Kafka accidentally presses the wrong button, but Silver Wolf only sighs before motioning for Kafka to hand over the controller.
“It’s alright, I guess. Everyone starts out a noob, and noobs don’t know any better. Look, you can’t just pop your ult whenever you want. That’s not always the most effective strategy,” she explains, and Kafka pretends to understand.
Kafka has vivid memories about a dream she once had about Sam. She drags the hunk of metal to a world filled with parts and gears and… more parts.
“They need an oil change,” she explains to the mechanic, as though they were a car and not a sentient humanoid automaton.
To her delight, the Sam in her dream actually does transform into a car.
When she dreams about Blade, the dreams are oddly fragmented—much like the real Blade’s memories. Her favorite dreams are the ones where he smiles. The corners of his eyes soften, and it feels as though the weight of the world has finally been lifted from his shoulders. His eyes meet hers, reds and golds blurring together like a blazing sunset.
“Thank you, Kafka,” he says.
And then she wakes up.
Reality is rarely ever as simple as her dreams. The Blade in her dreams will slash his way through an entire room of guards, leaving pools of blood in his wake before cradling her face in his hands and closing the distance between them. It’s effortless. Deranged. Perfect.
“Tell me, Bladie,” she’d whisper against his lips, idly nudging a decapitated head away with her foot. They’re ruining her moment. “How long have you waited to do that?”
“Ever since you killed me,” he’d respond.
And they lived happily ever after.
(In her dreams, that is.)
The reality is that handling Blade makes her feel like a scientist; carefully examining him beneath a microscope, dissecting him piece by piece, seeing what makes him tick. It’s no fairytale, but Kafka could do this all day.
If she could, she would reach into his chest and tear out his heart to see what makes it beat, what makes his blood warm, what brings color to his cheeks. Then she would return it, gently slotting it back into place, and lovingly stitch him back up, peppering the wound with apologies and kisses, smearing his blood between their bodies.
Do I make you feel human? Kafka wants to ask, but she knows better than to torture herself like that. It’s not even a good question. She loves the monster that dwells within his veins just as much as she loves him. For now, she will continue to swallow these feelings. Love is a dangerous game, after all.
An absence of fear does not mean an absence of shame—and Kafka will drown herself in shame before she makes a fool of herself.
And oh how desperately she wishes to make a fool of herself.
When they retire to their cabin for the night, Kafka refuses to let Blade out of her grasp. She winds her arms around his waist and collapses against him, resting her weary head against his chest.
“Kafka?”
She can feel the way his body tenses before reluctantly returning her embrace, and she hums in satisfaction.
“Let’s dance,” she whispers.
“What?”
Kafka pulls away from him. “We should practice,” she reasons. “It’ll do us no good if we look uncomfortable on the dance floor. Do you know how to dance, love?”
The term of endearment catches him off guard, and his mouth hangs agape long enough for her to burn the image into her retinas. “No, Kafka,” he responds. Her logic is sound. He has no recourse.
“I’ll teach you, then.”
She guides him through the motions, his hand now searing hot on her waist—just where she wants him. As they slowly move back and forth across the room, Kafka feels a newfound lightness in her step. From time to time, when he settles into the rhythm and effortlessly mirrors her steps, a sense of understanding flashes across his eyes.
When he accidentally steps on her foot, Kafka winces in pain before throwing her head back in laughter.
Blade apologizes profusely. “Kafka!” he rasps out, his steps now off tempo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re perfect, darling,” she sings before throwing her weight to the side and spinning them around in a circle.
His surprised gasp makes her feel as though all the blood has rushed to her head. Her heart flutters erratically, and she can barely project her voice through the tremors in her chest when she begins to hum one of her favorite songs.
When Blade dances with her like this, does he feel anything at all? Or is he mindlessly bending to her every whim? Does he stay by her side because he chooses to? Is she just a means to an end? Does he take fatal blow after fatal blow due to nothing more than obligation?
Kafka’s intuition tells her: No.
Pleasure and excess are no strangers to Kafka. New Babylon was rife with them to the point of self-destruction. On the other hand, for someone like Blade, pleasure may be a foreign concept. Maybe Yingxing knew something of pleasure. Maybe he had his own indulgences, his own vices.
She holds him close to her, their bodies lazily swaying back and forth to the sound of her humming. “What do you think?” she asks. “Dancing’s not so bad, right?”
“It’s not as difficult as I thought it would be.” Blade’s hold on her waist tightens. “You… are easy to follow.”
Kafka breathes in the faint scent of his cologne and sighs. “That’s good, darling.”
She can hear his breath hitch. A beat of silence passes. “You don’t need to keep pretending to be my spouse here.”
“But what if I want to?”
“What?”
Kafka buries her face in the crook of his neck and smiles, heart fluttering in her chest. “It’s fun,” she says, gently combing her her fingers through his hair. “I like seeing you get flustered.”
“Is this a game to you?”
She shakes her head. “No, Bladie, of course not.” Her hand snakes under his jacket, and her nails scrape against the fabric of his shirt. “I’m very serious about you,” she coos.
Blade pulls away from her before she can process the sudden flex of his hands. “We should get ready for bed.”
“Oh? Eager to please your wife?” she teases.
A strangled noise escapes his throat as he removes his jacket. Red spreads across his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears, and Kafka almost bursts into a wide grin at the sight.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
Kafka sighs. “I’m sorry for teasing you.”
She pats his arm apologetically before heading into the bathroom to take a quick shower. Blade mutters something under his breath. Kafka tries to not think anything of it.
After they finish washing up, Kafka insists that they share the bed. When they are sent on missions together, Blade always seats himself on the floor, and Kafka has to convince him to join her. It’s a familiar song and dance—one she is growing tired of.
“I’ve told you this before, but I’d prefer it if we shared the bed. I don’t want you to sleep on the floor, Bladie. Join me, will you?”
“Surely you would prefer to have the whole bed to yourself.”
Kafka frowns. “Of course it’s nice having a whole bed to yourself, but I’d sleep better knowing you’re comfortable as well.” She pats the pillow beside her. “Come on. We can even cuddle if you want.”
“Cuddle?” Blade shakes his head. “I am a weapon, Kafka. Weapons don’t… cuddle. Weapons are sharp.”
“Wrong answer, Bladie,” she sings, crossing her fingers into the shape of an X. Then the corners of her lips quirk up into a small smile. “We’re partners. Equals. Husband and wife.”
“We are only playing the role of husband and wife because that is what the script asks of us.”
Kafka pouts. “And what if I like it?”
Blade grows silent, jaw wired shut in contemplation.
“I think it’s quite fun if I’m being honest. Mr. and Mrs. Schwarz make for quite the pair, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Do you… not like it?”
He lifts his gaze.
“The script is what it is, but perhaps I did get a bit carried away.” Kafka’s gaze falls to her hands, now neatly folded on top of the sheets. She smiles, half-hearted. “You’re focused on the mission. I get it, so don’t worry. I totally understand. Blowing up the place will be the fun part. I’m just teasing you, really.”
The mattress dips. Kafka turns her head and is greeted by the sight of Blade pulling the sheets over his lower body. He doesn’t make eye contact with her.
“You’re fine,” he murmurs. “You seemed… happy today. That’s a good thing. It has been a while since you were able to enjoy yourself like this.”
“But I don’t want it to be at your expense.”
“I’m fine,” he insists. His mouth opens for a moment, only for him to press his lips together into a thin line. “We should get some rest.”
Blade rolls onto his side so that his back is facing her. Kafka turns off the lamp on their nightstand. She lies down and stares at his back, wondering if he would turn around if she asked.
He would. He does anything I tell him to, she thinks. He’s so good, my dear Bladie.
For once, it would be nice if he did things without being told because then she would know the truth. Is it her he remains loyal to, or is it her Spirit Whisper?
She doesn’t ask. Instead, she closes her eyes and waits for the world to fade into nothingness.
The kind of loneliness Kafka feels is all-encompassing; one that has buried its way deep in the trenches of her heart. It wraps around that empty void, like the ring of a scab that stubbornly refuses to flake off.
Kafka presses her body against Blade’s while they sway back and forth on the dance floor. Soft strings and a light piano meld together to create something romantic. It’s a familiar tune. Kafka thinks she heard it in a wine bar once.
Blade proves to be a fast learner. He only steps on her toes once, and Kafka laughs at his startled apology. The warmth of his body is intoxicating, and Kafka almost melts into him, wondering how it would feel if he held her like this through the night.
Touch is not something new between them. Sometimes it’s hands brushing against bare skin when she helps him change his bandages. Other times it’s his body protectively wrapped around hers as they dive off from the roof of a twenty-story building. Legs clumsily bumping against each other when they have to share a bed. Kafka embracing him when the Mara flares up.
But dancing is different. It’s… indulgent.
The script never called for dancing. Kafka wanted to dance, and he obliged. There’s meaning in that, she thinks, and she begins to wonder whether Elio has ulterior motives for sending them on this mission together. Maybe he has seen a future even Kafka doesn’t dare to imagine.
Kafka takes a reluctant step back when the song ends, and smiles at her partner. Blade’s face is as impassive as ever, but his cheeks are flushed, and Kafka thinks it’s not the alcohol’s fault.
When they mingle with the other guests, Kafka finds it easy to fall back into the act. She holds his hand from time to time, taking stock of her dear Bladie’s reactions before whispering words of encouragement into his ear.
To an outsider, they look incredibly affectionate—exactly what the script asked of them. Mrs. Schwarz is head over heels for her husband. He is not a man of many words, but she sees a special spark in him that no one else does.
Kafka sells this image with ease—but how much of it is an act, really?
“He’s actually very sweet,” she promises, “and he takes very good care of me.”
“I should be saying the same about you,” Blade interjects before sipping on the red wine Kafka requested. The acidity makes him frown.
Kafka raises a brow. “Oh? Do I not come off as sweet?” She also makes a mental note to ask for a sweeter wine next time.
“You are like a rose. Thorny…” Blade says. When Kafka glares at him, he clears his throat. “…and beautiful.”
Kafka’s entire demeanor lights up, eyes faintly twinkling beneath the dim lights. The other women laugh at this, lamenting the fact that their spouses no longer flirt with them.
When she grows tired of the conversation, she whisks him into an empty hallway. Blade’s discomfort melts away with every step they take. All of the noise has taken a visible toll on him. Kafka doesn’t think she’s ever heard him speak so much in one day.
She loops an arm around his. “You’ve never told me that you think I’m beautiful. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Why should I tell you things you already know?”
Kafka pauses. “Well, darling, I didn’t know, is the thing.”
“My opinion hardly matters.”
“I care—even if you don’t. And besides… You’ll never admit it, but you actually have a good eye for beauty, don’t you?” Kafka’s gaze falls to the silver butterfly on his lapel. Her eyes trace the edges. How curious.
When thrown into life-or-death situations with someone, watching them die for you over and over again, taking blow after blow after blow, you learn more than just a thing or two about them.
Reading Blade was difficult at first. A stoic husk of a man never gives much of anything away, or rather, he never had anything to hide. In fact, he was quite straightforward and forthcoming about his wants and desires. His deal with Elio being an open secret, Kafka assumed that there wasn’t much to get in the first place.
As the years flew by, she started pick up on things she had initially missed.
The way he obsessively sharpens his sword on his whetstone on his days off, day in and day out. His uncanny proficiency in the kitchen in spite of his unsteady hands. The fact that he seems almost immune to the heat. All of these little peculiarities added up.
Sometimes it feels as though he is drawn to flames—to the sun. When they visit a new world, if the weather is just right, he stands outside, motionless, and closes his eyes, embracing the sweltering heat against his skin.
Just what exactly is it that he feels in those moments? Maybe this is why he’s so eager to blow up this cruise liner. Does the impact of an explosion feel like flying too close to the sun, like a poetic form of self-destruction?
Kafka has a hunch about her partner and his past, but she doesn’t wish to say it out loud. Piecing together his fragmented memories isn’t her responsibility. Regardless, her curiosity persists.
They turn the corner at the end of the hallway, and Blade hums, deep in thought. “You just said that I have an eye for beauty.” Blade stares at his bandaged hands and frowns. “These hands… Maybe they once…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Eager to change the topic, Blade juts his chin towards the cabin to their left. “Is Silas in his room right now?” he asks.
Kafka places her palm on the door and then backs away, revealing a tiny sticker. “I don’t think so. We’re supposed to meet with him and Marvin at the ballet in a bit. Eager to give him your thanks, dearest?”
“…Yes. I thought it would be nice to finally greet our esteemed host.”
“Well, lucky for you, we’ll be sitting next to him tonight. If you want to chat with him in private, we can try to stop by tomorrow morning.”
Blade nods. “That would be nice.”
“Can we head back to our cabin for a bit? I’d like to freshen up before the show tonight.”
“Of course, darling, but I want you to know…” Blade places a hand on Kafka’s waist, and she grins. He glances down at her, eyes trailing across her face and then down the expanse of her neck—lower, lower. Then his eyes flit to the side, avoiding her observant gaze. He clears his throat, a hint of red now dusting his cheeks. “I think you look perfect.”
Hearing this, Kafka chuckles. “Always so sweet when no one else is around.” She lifts her head and stares directly into the camera on the ceiling. The blinking red light vanishes. The script is unfolding as predicted.
Upon returning to their cabin, Kafka takes a seat on the chaise lounge and stretches out her back. “That went well.”
She motions for Blade to join her. He nods and sits at the edge. “It looks like Silver Wolf has begun tampering with the security system.”
“You noticed?”
“Of course. It is important to know whether the script is unfolding as predicted.”
Kafka hums. “It looked like you were preoccupied with… something else.”
“I just made a simple observation. That’s all.”
“Perfect, huh?”
“You said the same about me the other night.”
Kafka leans back and sighs. “While we were dancing, yes.”
“What did you mean when you said that?”
“My Bladie is so earnest in everything he does,” Kafka answers, absentmindedly fidgeting with her wedding ring. “That’s why you get flustered when you accidentally step on my feet. You care—even about something as unimportant as dancing.”
“That… does not answer the question.” Blade’s expression is conflicted when he turns to look at her. “And you went out of your way to teach me. I did not want to waste your time.”
“Bladie, you’re never a waste of time. I wish you would stop talking about yourself like that,” Kafka implores, reaching for his arm. She tugs him towards her.
He doesn’t respond. He only blinks at her, jaw wired shut.
Kafka leans forward and cradles his cheek. Listen to me. The words sit on the tip of her tongue. She swallows them down like a bitter pill.
“You are not destined to be just a weapon. Weapons don’t have feelings. They don’t have dreams. Weapons don’t want. You were born human. You will die human. I will make sure of it.”
“Blade was created,” he rasps. “Kafka, I was forged into this. This is what I am now.”
Kafka clicks her tongue. “How unkind of them to make you this way. They didn’t even have the foresight to make you good at video games.”
Blade’s brows furrow together in confusion. “I don’t see the correlation.”
“Silver Wolf destroys you every time. That’s why you don’t play with her. She goes easy on you, too.”
He sputters, indignant. “What? I just don’t think I should play with her until my hands have fully healed. It would not be a fair challenge.”
“Using a controller doesn’t require much movement, you know.”
“You don’t fare much better, and your hands are…” Blade inches forward and reaches for her free hand. He runs his thumb across her knuckles. His eyes linger on her ring. “Perfect,” he whispers, as though in awe. “Unmarred.”
“Thanks to you.” Kafka’s voice is delicate. “You know, for someone who claims to be so sharp, your hands are… quite warm.”
She pulls him closer, their faces now only a few inches apart. Being an agent of destiny, Kafka is well aware that things will play out the way they are meant to. Every route has been decided well in advance, and free will can only steer you off-course for so long.
Maybe he, too, is her destiny. Or maybe she chose him, and destiny responded in kind.
Kafka surmises that she has three options:
One. Delay the inevitable.
Kiss him.
Two. Speed things up.
Kiss him.
Three. Choose a different path.
Kiss him.
Unfortunately for Kafka, she failed to consider a fourth option.
Kiss—
Blade cups her cheeks. His palms are warm and soothing against her skin. Kafka’s heart rises into her throat. It’s a familiar sensation. Much like the thrill of a good hunt, she can feel her blood rushing through her veins, from her fingertips all the way up to her head. He pulls her towards him, closer and closer, until she can feel his breath on her lips.
“Are you two lovebirds done being gross?”
Silver Wolf’s hologram glares at them from only a few feet away. Blade tears his hands away from Kafka and rises to his feet. Kafka sits there as though frozen in time, lamenting the sudden loss of warmth. Her lips tingle. She blinks, eyes suddenly bleary.
“I see you were able to hack into the security system,” he says as though he were not just seconds away from… something. Whatever that was.
Silver Wolf scoffs. “Of course I was able to. It was so easy I could’ve done it in my sleep.”
Kafka smiles. “Wolfie, what would we do without you?”
“Probably wind up in jail one too many times,” Silver Wolf deadpans. “Also thanks for planting the bug, Kafka.”
“My pleasure. You can hear everything okay even though it’s outside the cabin?”
“Crystal clear.” She pulls out a device and presses some buttons. “Check it out for yourself.”
A filtered voice rings out from the device. I can auction it off and split the profits with you, a masculine voice says. With a quick tap, the device vanishes.
“I’ve been monitoring the room. He definitely has it on this ship. Sounds like he has it kept in a safe of some kind.”
Blade grunts. “So the script is accurate. It appears he will be auctioning it off during the private dinner party.”
“Oh, I love a good auction. They’re always so much fun.” Kafka laughs. “I’ll try to not play with my food too much this time… but no promises.”
Silver Wolf rolls her eyes. “You of all people thinking about taking advice from Sam? Thought I’d never see the day.”
Blade sighs. “But is it really Kafka if she doesn’t play with her food?”
“Bingo!” Kafka exclaims. “Otherwise what’s the point of catching flies in your web? The drama of it all is important. It’s a performance. A proper finale is a memorable one.”
“And I bet she also plays with you,” Silver Wolf grumbles under her breath while shooting Blade an accusatory glare. “Well, I’ll get going now. I’m currently queueing for a dungeon. Don’t wanna be away when the queue finally pops. Looks like you two are doing well, so I’ll leave you to… whatever it was you were about to do earlier.”
Silver Wolf flashes them a peace sign before vanishing. Blade returns his attention to Kafka, and she purses her lips in disappointment. “She interrupted us at such a crucial moment. Now where did we leave off…”
“The ballet… I think it’s almost time.”
Kafka fights the urge to deflate and motions for Blade to come closer. She waves her hand until he is within arm’s reach. She reaches out for him and remains still. Blade squints at her before sighing and pulling her to her feet.
“How disappointing,” she whines. “You were full of so much courage earlier, Bladie. Where did it all go?”
“The mission takes precedence.”
“So we can continue where we left off after the mission?” Kafka demurely flutters her lashes at him, and he can only sigh in response.
She can’t tell if it’s an exasperated sigh or a fond one.
Maybe it’s both.
Their meeting with Silas proves to be relatively uneventful. Kafka flashes him a few flirty smiles and instantly wins him over, much to Blade’s dismay. The script told her to do it, so she figured everything would fall into place if she played her cards right, and Elio is never wrong.
Silas hands them two invitations—more of a formality than anything else—which Blade accepts with a stiff grin. “Thank you for your kindness, Silas,” Blade says. “I don’t know how we can repay you for your hospitality.”
“Oh, I can think of a few ways you can do that…” he whispers, eyes hungrily climbing up and down Kafka’s body.
Kafka swipes the invitations before Blade can crush them. She slides them into her purse and places a reassuring hand on his arm. “I’m sure he’s just joking, darling.”
Silas laughs. “You’re quite the catch if I do say so myself.” He smirks in Blade’s direction. “How did you reel this one in?”
Marvin, the only physical barrier between Blade and Silas’s impending death, nervously adjusts his tie. “I have heard that he takes very good of her,” he interjects.
“Shush!” Kafka brings a finger to her lips. “You’re all about to miss the best part,” she says in a hushed voice.
The ballerinas leap and twirl across the stage while the orchestra grows in intensity. Kafka clasps her hands together in joy at the spectacle unfolding before her eyes.
Beautiful!
Their costumes contrast against the dark backdrop of the stage. Jewels on the ballerina’s bodices twinkle in the distance, and Kafka watches in anticipation as someone brings out a tiara.
The tiara is scintillating beneath the stage lights as one of the ballerinas places it on top of her head, leaving Kafka in awe. She firmly grips Blade’s hand which is now in her lap. When did it get there? Not important. The violins are climbing up and down a scale, and the bass drum is booming throughout the auditorium.
When the conductor closes their fist, the room falls into silence. The stage lights go out, save for one sole spotlight in the center of the stage. Chimes and bells softly ring out, and the lone ballerina fouettés until the music fades out. She collapses to the ground while dark feathers fall all around her. Perhaps not all dreams are worth it, Kafka concludes—not if it ends in solitude.
The audience roars in applause. Flowers pile up on stage while all the performers take a bow. Kafka would clap, but she can’t bring herself to untangle her fingers from Blade’s.
She turns to her partner with starry eyes. “Wasn’t that the loveliest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on, dearest?” The words tumble out of her mouth without a care in the world.
Blade silently regards her for a moment, eyes never straying from hers. “Yes, it was,” he replies in a hushed voice, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
He lightly squeezes her hand, bringing her back to reality, and Kafka wants to kiss him.
The world is filled with horrors beyond comprehension, and Kafka decides that it’s all worth it if she’s not alone, so she resolves to kiss him.
She will kiss him, and it will be perfect.
Today is the perfect day for romance.
Kafka decides this the moment they set foot on the Xianzhou Zhuming. Murder and general crimes against humanity can wait until tomorrow. Kafka isn’t sure about all of the details of Blade’s past, but as a precaution, she assumes that the Zhuming is just as likely as the Luofu to trigger his Mara. Better to be prepared than be caught off guard.
Silver Wolf reconvenes with them in an empty tea room and hands them their weapons. “I hacked their scanners. They won’t pick up on your weapons when you board the ship again,” she explains. “Silas is a pretty paranoid guy. There were layers to the weapon detection scanners. It was, like, new-new IPC-grade stuff. Nothing I couldn’t crack though. It was practically child’s play.”
“Now it makes sense why this script feels oddly cautious. The ship is bound for Pier Point, and we’re definitely not on talking terms with them.”
Silver Wolf rolls her eyes. “And definitely not because of the stunt you pulled during your last mission. They’re still on guard.”
“What? You didn’t think it was fun? I thought it was a fitting farewell. Regardless, it sounds like we have nothing to worry about as long as we have you, Wolfie.” Kafka counts her grenades and then unsheathes her katana, admiring the way it glints under the light. “Thanks for all of your great work, darling. You’re the best.”
“But I didn’t—”
Kafka whips her head around just in time to catch Blade’s mouth hanging open in shock. His jaw clamps shut, and he busies himself with polishing the sword in his hands. His red ears, however, betray him.
“Did you just?” Silver Wolf doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned. “No way. Kafka, what did you do to him?”
“We’ve just been following the script. We also danced a couple times. Nothing too crazy, right?”
“Right,” Blade responds with a terse nod.
“I bet you two kissed a couple times, too,” Silver Wolf deadpans. She shakes her head disapprovingly. “I really wish I didn’t have to see that the other night.”
Kafka frowns. “Oh, please. We didn’t even kiss.”
“Almost kissed. Right in front of me!”
“Your timing is always so impeccable.”
“Must’ve been destiny. Elio probably foresaw me cockblocking you.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”
Blade remains deathly silent. Silver Wolf is about to respond when he clears his throat. “We should get back on topic. The location of the escape pods has not changed, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s correct. Don’t think it’s very easy to relocate them because of how the ship is laid out, but if for whatever reason you can’t get to them in time, Sam and I will find a way to bust you two out. But they’re literally right there… behind the stage. It would be a miracle if you guys couldn’t escape.”
“Always a relief knowing you two have my back. I’ll try to not get too carried away with the explosives.” Kafka chuckles. “But I’m sure we’ll be just fine. Right, Bladie?”
“Right,” he replies, voice more hoarse than usual.
Silver Wolf sighs. “Well, I guess I’ll see you two after the finale. Make it a… memorable one or whatever. Logging out. See you tomorrow.”
She snaps her fingers and vanishes.
Kafka sheathes her sword and hides it beneath her coat while the grenades are haphazardly tossed into her purse. Blade sheathes his sword and lets it hang off of his belt.
Kafka raises a brow at this. “Isn’t that too obvious?”
“If anyone asks, I will just explain that I am an avid collector who struck a deal with a master craftsman.”
“A master craftsman, huh.” Kafka reaches for his hand and smiles when he doesn’t flinch away. “I’ve been wondering… In the past, were you a craftsman of some kind?”
Blade grimaces and massages his temple with his free hand. “A craftsman? An arrogant one, perhaps.”
Kafka rubs her thumb across his knuckles, back and forth, until the tension subsides. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to cause a flare up.”
“No, Kafka. I am… fine. My memories are still unclear, but this is something I have… complicated feelings about.” He shakes his head and presses his arm against hers. “The strangest thing is that… I feel no pain when thinking about it. A mild discomfort, but no pain.”
“Maybe it’s something you loved,” Kafka muses. “Something that brought you joy.”
“You said I had an eye for beauty,” he recalls. “Perhaps that is where I got it from.”
“It must’ve been a significant part of your life. You may have forgotten, but your body clearly remembers.” Kafka gazes out the window, taking in the bustling streets and the sound of hammers striking steel ringing out in the distance. “Would you like to try?”
Blade’s eyes slightly widen. “Try… what exactly?”
“Forging a blade.” Kafka smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“No,” he replies, nearly breathless. His hand twitches, as though yearning for freedom.
It’s been far too long since Kafka was able to shop around like this. When this mission is over, a visit to Rhodinia is definitely in order. Blade trails behind her, all of her bags hanging off the crook of his elbow. Occasionally, he will pause and stare at a building in the distance. Maybe he sees beauty where Kafka doesn’t.
Kafka glances over her shoulder and comes to a halt. She reaches for a loose strand of hair hanging over Blade’s shoulder and tuts in disapproval. “Let me fix that for you,” she offers.
“No need,” Blade responds, voice muffled by his face mask.
Kafka shakes her head, a knowing smile on her lips. She reaches into her bag and fishes out a couple bobby pins. Blade bends down, and Kafka pins back the lock of hair. She brushes his hair out of his eyes and nods approvingly.
“There you go,” she says. “You’re perfect again.”
Getting Blade’s hair in order took a considerable amount of time. To be safe, she tried out a new hairstyle on him, a high ponytail adorned with a decorative hairpin. Although they are light-years away from the rest of the Xianzhou ships, better to be safe than sorry, she supposes.
Kafka adored the look so much that she snapped a photo of him before they left. To celebrate such a momentous occasion, she even brought him a new coat to wear.
Many hours were spent in front of the mirror, trying different outfits and accessories in preparation for this mission. The way this coat is cropped brings extra attention to his waist, something Kafka is very pleased with.
A familiar silver brooch is pinned to the lapel. Mine! it screams.
Blade leans closer and tucks a strand of hair behind Kafka’s ear. She holds her breath when his callused fingers brush against her skin.
“Perfect again,” he mutters.
The movement is subtle and quick, but when his eyes flicker down to her lips, Kafka feels electricity crackling beneath her skin. He shuffles away wordlessly, leaving Kafka motionless in the middle of the busy street. She wonders if his touch is a venom slowly working its way through her veins, and for a moment, she feels right at home.
Euphoric, even.
She wonders if he ever feels the same when he falls into her web. Or maybe that’s not the right way to frame things. Does he fall into her web like unsuspecting prey, or does he welcome her presence and the all-encompassing tenderness she reserves only for him?
All is fair in love and war, but maybe the silk isn’t meant to ensnare. Maybe the silk is meant to protect.
The rest of the day is a game of back and forth. That night in their cabin, his breath tickling her lips and the feeling of his hands on her, ignited something they may never come back from.
Push and pull, like dominos toppling over. Now, one subtle glance leads to another. Kafka nudges his arm, and he bumps into her, a soft sorry tumbling from his lips—pointless damage control. It’s all a show.
When she reaches for his hand, his fingers curl around hers instinctively. When in the company of others, his hand finds its way to her waist. He pulls her close to him, and she can smell his cologne. It’s one she gifted him in the past, and she can’t believe he kept it and even thought to bring it with him.
For someone who claims to be nothing more than a weapon, Blade is awfully familiar with this song and dance. Has he danced with someone else before? she wonders.
These little slivers of humanity—Kafka holds onto them like a box of puzzle pieces. With every new piece that is slotted in place, she sees him more clearly than ever before. One day, she hopes she can see the full picture.
When Kafka tries on a sundress and twirls in front of the mirror, she shoots Blade a questioning glance. “Well, darling, what do you think?”
“Looks good,” he says.
Kafka does another spin and admires how the fabric flows with every movement and how cool it feels against the skin. “I’ll take it!” she exclaims. “I’ve been wanting a new sundress. I was thinking that it would be nice to visit Rhodinia after this. There’s a spot I know where you can watch the sea. Undisturbed, of course.”
“We should go.”
“I’ll pick a day, then.”
Kafka observes his reflection in the mirror. The corners of his eyes are softer than usual, his posture more relaxed. She imagines him smiling beneath his mask. It’s a lovely dream.
The afternoon sun beats down on them when they finally find an empty bench that also happens to be right outside of someone’s workshop. On the outskirts of the shopping district, the sound of hammers striking steel can be heard again. A smoky and metallic smell wafts through the air. Blade watches the craftsman work with great interest.
“Is he good?”
“An amateur.”
Kafka laughs at his bluntness. “Maybe our Bladie has always been a little cocky?”
He grunts. “Perhaps.”
“If you ask, maybe they’ll let you give it a go,” Kafka suggests. She can’t see through his mask, but she’s sure he’s frowning now.
Blade sighs. “I shouldn’t.”
“Maybe another time, then. I won’t force you.”
It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here right now. The least she can do is let him rest somewhere quiet and away from prying ears.
After taking a moment to rest, Kafka rises to her feet and holds out her hand. Blade accepts it with a blank expression on his face. “Let’s head back to the ship, shall we?”
On their way back, Blade comes to a halt when they’re almost out of the shopping district. “I want to go somewhere before heading back. You go ahead.”
Kafka frowns. “Is this… part of your script?”
Blade shakes his head. “No, and don’t worry, Kafka. I won’t be long.”
“Okay. I’ll… see you later, then.”
His hand slips out of hers, and Kafka watches him vanish in the crowd. She huffs in disappointment and heads back to the ship alone. She holds her purse in her hand, instead of letting it hang off her arm, and pretends that she’s holding his hand instead because the sun is setting and it’s beautiful.
When Kafka boards the ship, it dawns on her that Blade is still carrying all of her bags. Oh, that silly man of hers…
Instead of pondering over what her precious Bladie could possibly be up to this very moment, Kafka decides to follow the script and retreats to their cabin. Elio didn’t write anything detailed for today beyond meeting with Silver Wolf. And speaking of Silver Wolf: as expected, she didn’t set off any alarms at the entrance.
The script doesn’t tell Kafka anything beyond the fact that she should return to their cabin. It’s one of those find a way to pass the time things, so she does just that. Kafka flips through the meager collection of records in the room and places one on the phonograph. It’s an old aria she’s fond of. The melody sounds a little uninspired at times, but it’s still a lovely tune.
She gets halfway through the first movement when the door slides open. Blade casually enters the room with more bags than she left him with.
“You’re back,” Kafka breathes out. She forgot about the high ponytail. So, so cute, she thinks.
“Sorry for leaving so suddenly.” Blade sets the bags down at her feet, one by one, until there are two mysterious bags left hanging on his arm. A savory aroma tickles Kafka’s nose, and she’s about to take a peek when Blade sets them down on a nearby table. “I thought that you would prefer to dine in our room today, so I grabbed some food.”
“You’re too kind.” Kafka takes a seat and hums along to the aria softly playing in the background while Blade places a container of noodles in front of her. He visibly relaxes when she eagerly leans over the table to get a closer look. “How did you know I wanted noodles?”
To her shock, Blade rolls his eyes. He must’ve picked that up from Silver Wolf. “You kept eyeing that one noodle stand every time we passed it.”
Blade uncaps a container of broth and pours it over her bowl of noodles. Kafka snaps open a pair of wooden chopsticks and stirs the noodles while the broth is still steaming. Blade takes a seat across from her and prepares his own bowl.
“Same thing?” Kafka asks, gesturing towards his container with her chopsticks.
He grunts an affirmative. “Sounded good.”
Kafka takes a sip of the broth and hums in delight. “Well, it’s delicious. I appreciate you grabbing dinner.”
They eat without exchanging many words. Occasionally, Blade will reach over and tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears. “You should tie it up more properly,” he grumbles in between bites. “It’ll get in the soup.”
Kafka brushes him off with a chuckle. “You worry too much, darling.”
When they finish their food, Blade stacks their containers and chucks them in the trash. Kafka then points at the other mysterious bag. “I didn’t remember a pink bag when we parted ways.”
“This?” Blade picks up the bag and pulls out a bottle of rosé.
Kafka gasps. “You didn’t!”
“I overheard you talking about it with some of the guests the other day. I saw it on display somewhere, so I went back to look for it.”
He hands her the bottle and rummages through a drawer in hopes of finding a cork opener. Kafka runs a finger across the matte label and gilded text. Bubbly, not too dry, forward strawberry notes. Sweet. Indulgent.
Blade places a cork opener on the table, which Kafka snatches up with an alarming amount of swiftness. The cork releases with a loud pop. Kafka jumps to her feet and grabs the wine glasses sitting on top of their mini fridge.
“So tell me… Do you have any more surprises planned for tonight?” Kafka knows she’s pushing her luck right now, but a little teasing never hurt anyone.
Aeons above, she wants to kiss him.
She pours the wine and holds a glass up to her nose. Tangy.
Kafka is about to take a sip of her wine when Blade pulls something else out of the bag. He returns to his seat with a box in his hands.
“More surprises? What’s the occasion? You’re being extra good today, Bladie. Suspiciously good. Are you going to ask for a reward?”
Blade pulls back the lid, revealing an assortment of entremets. Vibrant colors, glossy glazes, and perfect layers. Kafka could cry. She’s so stunned, all she can do is take in the little cakes and how pretty they are. Needing a moment to compose herself, she swirls the wine in her glass and takes a sip
Be flirty, she tells herself. Calculated. Elegant.
“Are you trying to win my affection?” she drawls.
Blade hands her a dainty fork. “Is that what you want, Kafka?”
Oh, he’s perfect.
She accepts the fork and almost trembles when his fingers brush against hers. Kafka has sown death and destruction across the stars, but she’s starting to lose her nerve because her partner is wining and dining her.
What’s next? A kiss?
That wouldn’t be so outrageous, would it?
Blade takes a sip of the rosé and grimaces. Regardless, he drinks a little more and then licks his lips.
“I think you already know what I want. Now, darling, what do you want?” Kafka points at him with her fork before using it to slice open one of the entremets. The fork slices through the glossy dome with ease, revealing neatly separated layers.
Think about the cake. Think about the wine. Think about anything but Blade’s lips and his rough hands.
Yuzu, mint, and vanilla melt together on her tongue. The aroma is lovely, and the texture is light and airy. She then takes another sip of her wine and finds that it pairs perfectly with the cake—but of course it does. It’s pink and bubbly; how could it not? Of course Blade would know exactly what she likes.
At this point, he probably knows everything she likes. In fact, he even knows her measurements. Maybe he wants to check if those measurements are still accurate. With his hands, of course. After dessert, maybe she can shimmy out of this dress of hers and—
“That doesn’t answer the question, Kafka.”
Her illusion of control shatters.
“Isn’t it obvious at this point?” Kafka purses her lips and pokes at one of the uneaten cakes. This one probably has mousse in it. A chuckle forces its way past her lips. “Have you already forgotten about what happened the other night?”
His gaze falls to the table. “I remember.”
“Wanna finish what we started?”
A beat of silence passes. Blade looks up and peers into her eyes, as though searching for something. He takes a deep breath and sighs. “I shouldn’t.”
Frustrated, Kafka finishes her pretty little cake in only a few bites before downing an entire glass of wine. “Why?” is all she can ask. “Why do all this if you won’t…” Her voice trails off.
Blade looks at her apologetically. When he doesn’t respond, Kafka pours herself another glass. It’s just wine. A few glasses never hurt anyone.
Something swirls in her gut, a feeling so foreign she doesn’t know what to do with it. At first, Kafka wonders is this it? but dismisses the thought as soon as it arrives. This isn’t fear. No, it’s something else. Something real and buried. The wine’s aftertaste is rotten.
For the first time, Kafka thinks that maybe she’s got it all wrong. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s her power. Maybe it’s because Elio tells him to. Maybe it’s because no one else is crazy enough to see him for who he really is and have the gall to… care for him?
Or maybe it’s because he sees what’s hidden beneath her mask and decides that it’s not worth the trouble, so he should keep her happy—or else.
Care for him. Care for Bladie. But who cares for her? Who cares for Kafka?
“Does this mean that you don’t—”
“I can only give,” he blurts out. His voice is a low rumble that Kafka can feel in her bones. “I can’t take from you—not more than I already have, not more than I already do.” He runs a hand through his hair, a deep sigh rupturing from his throat. “Kafka… You give and you give and you give. It is not fair to you. I am not fair to you.”
Kafka rises to her feet, indignant, and sits herself at the edge of the bed. She pats the empty space beside her. “Sit.”
She regrets the word as soon as it leaves her lips. It sounds too much like a command someone gives their dog. Sometimes Blade does feel like her dog, but it shouldn’t be that way. He is her partner. They are equals. They are fair to each other—good to each other.
And they can be better.
“Please, Blade. Let’s… talk, okay?” she pleads. He stares at her wordlessly for what feels like an eternity before getting up and joining her on the bed. “Do you want to know how I really feel?”
Blade doesn’t respond. He isn’t a man of many words, but how many words does he have left in him?
“I’m not any good at stuff like this—being open and serious—but you deserve that from me at the very least.” Kafka laces her fingers together, and she feels her ring dig into her flesh.
Bladie, listen to me, she wants to say. Instead, she flexes her fingers, and the wedding ring digs deeper into her skin. Why ask him to listen? When has he not?
“Sometimes I feel as though destiny brought you to me. You were so fragile and broken, but you looked me in the eye, and I saw this spark.”
Kafka’s lips pull into a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. It wasn’t Yingxing that she saw in those fiery eyes of his. It was Blade waiting to be pulled from the forge.
“This empty husk of a man looked as though he wanted to set the stars on fire—he looked as though he could—and I thought that was beautiful. And I’m not sure why, but when you looked me in the eye, I thought that maybe… Together, maybe we could make even an Aeon fall to its knees.”
Kafka turns to Blade and finds his gaze locked firmly on her. His eyes are blazing.
“We gave you a new home, a new purpose, a new place in this universe. Elio told me that you were my responsibility, and Elio doesn’t take no for an answer. I wasn’t very good at looking after you at first. I’m sure you remember how bad I was at handling everything. That Mara of yours is no joke.”
Kafka chuckles, recalling how she found him writhing on his bedroom floor one day. Blade blinks at her, lips slightly parted. The sound of bones and tendons tearing, breaking, rebuilding aren’t exactly pleasant. There was also the time the noise got too loud, and his blood had tarnished nearly every piece of furniture she owned by the time she realized what had happened.
And then she remembers the first time she got it right. She remembers stroking his hair while he rested his head in her lap. Everything was quiet, save for the sound of her singing.
The monster always quiets to listen to her, but it’s never easy. What’s easy is being selfish. Uncaring. She can chase pleasure and become the very devils she used to hunt, or she can choose kindness. So Kafka chooses to give. She gives him little pieces of her however she can, little pieces that he can carry with him when she can’t be by his side.
“I must confess that I have grown to adore you,” Kafka says, an unfamiliar heat spreading across her cheeks. “Oh, Bladie, I’m no good at this. I give to you because I just… I—”
“Kafka.” A breath hitches in her throat when his hands move to cover hers. “You’re shaking.”
Blade pries her hands apart, carefully untangling her fingers. He doesn’t let go, fingers protectively curling around hers. Then he lifts her hand and gently presses his lips to her knuckles. She feels a pang in her chest.
“Do you want to know the truth, Kafka? You asked once if my script was different. It seems as though yours left something out as well.”
Kafka furrows her brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Blade hums. “I understand why Elio did that now… In my script, it says that I kiss you.”
What?
“Knowing you, if you discovered what was in my script, it would have made you… sad. You wouldn’t accept it, knowing it was destiny.” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “You would want it to be real, would want it to mean something. No matter how hard you try to hide it, that’s the kind of person you are, Kafka.”
“So the dinner and the wine and—”
“I did my best,” Blade confesses, cheeks now flushed. “It’s clear I am no good at this.”
Kafka doesn’t know what to think or how to feel, so she says the first thing that comes to mind. “No, Bladie, you’re perfect.” She cradles his cheek and smiles when he leans into her touch. “I would say that you’re almost too good at this.”
Kafka then presses her lips to his cheek and laughs when a strangled noise escapes his throat. She pulls away to look at him and giggles. He looks terribly flustered, almost like an angry kitten.
Her heart feels light and fluttery when Blade grabs her arm and closes the distance between them. Kafka can feel him trembling, and his breathing sounds almost labored. The fabric of her coat is fisted in his hand, but she can hardly bring herself to care about the wrinkles that will need to be ironed out when he’s being so brave, so endearing.
When his lips clumsily brush against the corner of her mouth, Kafka throws her arms around him and buries her face into the crook of his neck. She softly pecks the exposed skin there. Her entire body shakes in laughter.
“You’re adorable,” she coos, and when she hears Blade chuckle, she stills. It’s a low and lovely sound that makes Kafka’s heart clench uncontrollably.
“I can’t do it—not now,” he whispers. “Not the right time. Not yet.”
Kafka runs her fingers through his long ponytail and hums. “I trust you. I’ll wait as long as it takes, dearest.”
Winning the auction is a piece of cake. It’s all a bluffing contest, really. Might as well make a show of it, right? The music is so lovely as well. The live band is definitely a nice touch. Kafka has the Stellaron in her hand when she turns to Silas and gives him a smile so saccharine all the color drains from his face.
She pockets the cursed prize without much fanfare and taps on her earpiece. “I’ve secured it.”
A loud crash rings out from across the room. Everyone screams when Blade flips over an entire banquet table and brandishes his sword. Kafka watches the chaos unfold in amusement. One of the musicians throws her violin aside as she tries to make her escape. Absolutely unacceptable! Kafka whips out her gun and shoots her in the head from across the room.
“Silas, the truth is that… I hate absolutely everyone on this damned ship of yours.” Kafka grabs Silas’s hand and playfully shakes it. His face is so pale and sickly, she wonders how he’s still standing. “I should reintroduce myself. Stellaron Hunter. Kafka. Pleasure doing business with you.” She winks at him and hops off the stage before chucking a grenade across the room.
Kafka slowly makes her way to Blade, who is making quick work of the room. She frowns when she steps in the ever-growing pool of blood at his feet. She really likes these heels. Bullets fire indiscriminately, and she laments how easy it all is.
“At least put up a fight…” She clicks her tongue in disappointment. “How boring.”
In only a few minutes, nearly everyone has been wiped out. There’s blood everywhere, mixed with intestines and guts and other savory fluids, like all the steaks that have fallen to the ground during Blade’s rampage. All those delicious cuts of meat—wasted! There’s also the shattered glasses of wine, but Kafka would rather not think about that. It’s all too sad.
Blade corners a man who has been hiding beneath a table. Kafka squints and finds that he looks awfully familiar. Ah, yes, that’s right. Marvin! Good man, she thinks. Better coat. Blade points his sword at the man’s throat and tilts his chin up with the cold steel.
“S-Spare me!” he pleads.
“You flirted with my wife,” is all Blade says before slashing his throat.
Kafka laughs. “Why are you playing with your food, Bladie?”
“I have been planning this all week, Kafka.”
“Am I a bad influence?” Kafka flutters her lashes at him, and all he can do is mutter how ridiculous under his breath. “So what are you going to do about him?” She points at Silas, who is curled up and trembling behind the podium when they reach him. “I didn’t like the way he looked at me during the ballet.”
Blade smirks. “Vertically or horizontally?”
Kafka claps her hands together in glee when Blade cuts off his head. Silas’s blood is everywhere when Blade is done with him.
“You did such a beautiful job, my love.”
I love you, she wants to say, but she wants to see what Blade will do first.
As it turns out, sometimes reality is as simple as her dreams. Blade reaches for her, cradling her face in his hands, breath tickling her lips.
“I would do anything for you, Kafka.”
“Then kiss me,” she whispers.
A series of explosions ring out from afar, and the walls violently shake.
Blade closes the distance between them and slants his lips over hers. Her heart thrums erratically in her throat, and electricity crackles beneath her skin. Then he kisses her—and it’s so clumsy and earnest, she feels as though she’s falling in love all over again.
Kafka rises to her tiptoes and winds her arms around his neck, pressing her body flush against his. His lips are sweet and warm against hers. She tilts her head and deepens the kiss, coaxing a gasp from his lips that makes her entire body tremble with want. His hands fall to her waist, and she hums in pleasure.
It’s effortless. Deranged. Perfect.
“Tell me, Bladie,” she mumbles against his lips, idly nudging Silas’s decapitated head away with her foot. He’s ruining their moment. “How long have you waited to do that?”
“Ever since you killed me,” he responds.
“You’re a dream come true, darling.”
Kafka smiles so hard her cheeks hurt.