AKAME ASSASINATION (55)
"Alright, everyone. I need a consolidated status report. Now." Rika's voice cut through the war room's low hum, sharp and commanding. She was no longer a diplomat; she was a general on the eve of a battle she had no guarantee of winning.
"Lady Rika—"
"Skip the formalities. Just give me the operational picture." She moved to the central display, a massive digital map of Nairobi pulsing with data points. Her eyes scanned for anomalies, for the single blip that would signal the beginning of the end.
"One hundred of our two-fifty available combat sorcerers have been deployed to key choke points," a senior analyst reported, his voice raised to carry. "We've rerouted all civilian traffic away from densely populated commercial districts and residential zones. It reduces the variables—and the collateral damage."
"We've also assumed administrative control over the city's sensor grid," another added. "Traffic cameras, municipal surveillance, private security feeds within legal limits. If he so much as casts a shadow in the wrong place, we'll see it."
"Good." Rika's nod was curt. "Our primary objective is containment. If—when—he makes a move, we funnel the engagement to a predetermined zone. We are not letting this fight spill into the streets."
"Understood, ma'am!" The response was a chorus of tense affirmation.
Maomao, leaning against a console with her arms crossed, voiced the quiet dread in the room. "What are the odds he even shows up today?"
"Statistically, not high. But our intelligence suggests his trajectory was toward the capital. The timeline fits." Rika's answer was clinical, but a faint tension corded in her neck.
"Intelligence from who?"
Rika gave a slight, ambiguous shrug. "Anonymous. But it was the same source that first confirmed he was alive. At this point, we operate on the assumption it's credible. Frankly," she added, a hollow, awkward laugh escaping her, "I'd be relieved if it all turned out to be an elaborate prank."
"Sure you would," Maomao murmured, her eyes knowing.
"I am not having this conversation with you right now."
Shhhk—
The pneumatic door hissed open behind them. Two figures entered, their presence shifting the room's energy from bureaucratic anxiety to something colder, more predatory.
"Hope we're not interrupting anything crucial." The speaker was a woman whose most striking feature was the smooth, opaque digital mask covering her face. It displayed a simple, smiling pixelated emoji, which felt more unnerving than any visible expression. Beside her stood a man with sharp features and a head of silver hair that seemed to absorb the room's light.
"Nina. Donovan." Rika's surprise was genuine. "I didn't realize the House of Blight was sending additional assets."
Nina shrugged, the emoji on her mask switching to a playful wink. "We could always leave. I was thinking of catching the next flight back to the mainland. The food here is… questionable."
"Your assistance would be invaluable," Rika said quickly, stepping forward. "We need every edge."
"Good," Donovan replied, his voice a low monotone. His gaze was already dissecting the tactical displays. "We have a professional policy against leaving contracts unresolved. It's bad for business."
"I can imagine." Rika extended a hand. Donovan met it, and she felt the rough texture of surgical stitches beneath her palm. She looked down. His left forearm, visible beneath his rolled sleeve, was crudely sewn back on at the elbow, the skin still an angry, inflamed red.
"What happened?"
"An occupational hazard," he said flatly, withdrawing his hand.
"That's why we're late," Nina chimed in, her digital mask now showing a rolling-eyes emoji. "Had to stop at a back-alley flesh-stitcher to reattach his arm. It was honestly pathetic."
"Quiet. You didn't fare much better in your engagement," Donovan shot back, a flicker of annoyance in his stone-cold eyes.
"Maybe. But I didn't lose a limb to a teenager."
"Can we please focus?" Rika interjected, sensing the volatile dynamic. "I was informed the police chief contracted you for the same target. I trust it didn't go as planned?"
"Negative," Donovan confirmed, his gaze returning to the screens. "I failed to locate the primary target. However, I made contact with his traveling party."
A ripple of interest went through Rika and Maomao. "Party?"
"A man dressed entirely in white with a… distinctive wide-brimmed hat. And a boy. Light purple hair, significant raw power."
Maomao went rigid. She drifted closer, her voice dangerously soft. "Excuse me. Did you say a man in white with a wide-brimmed hat?"
"Affirmative. With facial markings. Looked like a hunter-sorcerer."
Rika and Maomao exchanged a loaded glance. "You think it's… Koji-san?" Rika breathed.
Maomao opened her mouth to answer, then froze. A fraction of a second, a micro-hesitation that spoke volumes. "Probably not," she finally said, too quickly. "It's a common aesthetic for itinerant priests and freelance hunters. Means nothing."
Rika studied her, then let it go with a nod. "True. This country is full of wandering blades."
"Regardless," Donovan continued, "the boy is of note. Exceptional combat intuition. Adaptive. A waste to kill."
"That's high praise from a Blight," Rika observed. "But it's irrelevant. Our sole priority is the Calamity. Secondary targets are discretionary. If you want the boy, he's yours."
"Understood." Donovan turned on his heel, heading back toward the door. "We'll begin sector sweeps."
"Later, lovelies~" Nina gave a two-fingered pixelated salute before following.
"I should go, too," Maomao said suddenly, her eyes fixed on the door.
"You're seriously leaving me with all this?" Rika gestured at the buzzing war room, the mountain of logistical hell.
"If I find him first, it reduces your paperwork by about ninety percent," Maomao reasoned, a thin, determined smile on her lips. "And I'm stealth. If Junichi-kun's brute force fails, I can get close. Closer than anyone."
Rika stared at her, searching the younger woman's face for doubt. She found none. Only the steel of a trained killer. "You're sure?"
"Are you questioning my resolve now?"
"I'm questioning your heart, Maomao. This isn't just another target."
"But it is," Maomao replied, her voice dropping to a whisper only Rika could hear. "We've killed objectively better people for far, far less. I'm a shinobi. This is what I do."
Rika couldn't argue. Maomao's professional resolve was terrifying, and it only highlighted the fissures in her own.
'If Akame-kun stood in my place… would you kill him?'
'Would I?' The question echoed in the hollow of her chest. 'Maybe I'd hesitate. She's right. We've done worse for pettier reasons. So why does this feel like standing at the edge of a cliff?'
She placed a hand over her sternum, feeling the frantic, bird-like flutter of her own heart beneath the silk of her blouse.
'Am I scared? No… not of him. Then why…?'
"Are you okay?" Maomao asked, her head tilted.
Rika blinked, refocusing. "I'm fine. Go. Do what you need to do."
Maomao didn't wait for a second invitation. In a whisper of fabric and a subtle distortion of light, she was gone—vanishing from the room as if she'd never been there.
Rika was left alone amidst the controlled chaos, her hand still pressed to her chest.
'Why is my heart trying to escape? It feels like it's trying to claw its way out.'
ZEEEEEP—!
A sharp, piercing alarm shattered her introspection.
One of the analysts jerked upright. "Ma'am! One of the perimeter fragment-sensors just spiked! Massive energy signature!"
Rika was at his shoulder in an instant. "Whose registry? Is it one of ours?"
"One signature is registered… low-level, seems benign. But the other…" The analyst's face paled. "It's off the charts. No match in any database. It's… pure."
"Where?" Rika demanded, her voice tight.
"The signal is emanating from… the new cultural precinct. The East Sun wing."
Rika's blood ran cold. "Dispatch a team. Now. And get me a visual."
***
THE CULTURAL CENTER, NAIROBI
Gil pressed his back against the cold marble wall of the East Sun wing's entrance, peering around the corner with exaggerated caution. The grand plaza outside was eerily quiet, the enforced evacuations having done their work.
"Coast is clear," he whispered, his voice tinged with the thrill of borrowed spy-movie bravado.
Akame walked past him, utterly unimpressed. "What are you doing?" His tone was the flat, patient one reserved for explaining why one does not lick frozen metal.
"I don't wanna get spotted! We gotta move like… like Jason Bourne!" Gil hissed, not taking his eyes off the empty plaza.
"You are the only person here acting conspicuously suspicious." Akame continued walking straight down the center of the promenade, hands in his pockets, a picture of mundane disregard.
"Hey! They'll see you!"
"They," Akame said, not looking back, "are looking for a calamity, not a tourist. You, however, look like a shoplifter having a nervous breakdown."
The streets of the cultural district weren't deserted, but they were subdued. Citizens meandered, glancing at the bold red EVACUATE AT YOUR OWN PACE signs with a mixture of confusion and apathy. The lack of urgency was a strange, fragile peace.
The two moved across the wide avenue. Gil couldn't help but gawk at the towering spires of the city center, glass and steel giants that dwarfed even Kisumu's skyline. "They're even bigger!"
"Sightseeing later," Akame said, his destination already fixed.
The Land of the East Sun cultural center was a stunning piece of modern architecture fused with traditional motifs—sweeping pagoda-style roofs over glass and titanium frames. It was, bafflingly, still open, its automated doors sliding silently apart as they approached.
"What are we doing here?" Gil asked, his Bourne-act forgotten, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"I need to retrieve an artifact," Akame stated, his eyes scanning the serene, empty lobby. "One that will simplify our exit strategy considerably."
"An artifact?" Gil's mind flashed to Lynn on Akame's finger and Shizen at Koji's hip. "Like Mr. Koji's sword?"
"Similar, but different in nature. Its purpose isn't combat. It's… influence." Akame stopped before a large, interactive digital directory. He bypassed the tourist exhibits with a swipe, pulling up a donor and loan registry. His finger tapped a single, unassuming entry.
Item #447-C: Ceremonial Long Dagger (Wakizashi) – "Osore" – On Loan from the Endo Historical Society.
"It's called Osore," Akame said, the name leaving his lips like a sigh.
Gil looked at the entry, then at Akame's impassive face. "Osore? What does it mean?"
Akame's emerald eyes met his, holding a depth of old, weary knowledge.
"The Blade of Fear."
TO BE CONTINUED!