Missy Foxglove

The sun shone redly through a window as Michie opened the door to her apartment. Sato's "package," an unlabelled manila envelope, had been placed squarely on the low glass table. Michie placed Chan-chan in a corner and drew the blinds.

The package contained a photo, a map of Tokyo with tick marks clustered in one district, a round-trip train ticket to that district, and a note. "3:15 PM," it said. "Dial Tokyo 6-7071."

The photo was sharp but badly framed, an action shot of a slight girl in schoolgirl attire, white trimmed with red, and wearing short black boots. Her hair was red too, not a Caucasian red but a candy-apple or jellybean red, and tied in a long French braid. Her skirt was so short, Michie noted disapprovingly, that her underthings were visible. One hand was flung out before her, and some black substance issued from it, passing out of frame. Michie turned the photo over and found a word scrawled on the back: LICORICE.

So. Tomorrow she would travel to Tokyo and receive instructions on how to kill this Licorice, this magical girl. She stepped into the small private bath, stood before the mirror, and made the peculiar mental shift from Nakasone Michie to Missy Foxglove. A purplish fog passed before her eyes as her clothing altered against her skin. She held the photo up to the mirror and compared the girl to her technicolor self. Purple and red, black and white. Hunter and hunted. But the eyes of the girl in the photo held exhilaration and wonder, and the purple eyes in the mirror held only dread.

Michie did not sleep well that night.

Saturdays were half-days, with light classwork, but Michie still could not concentrate. The kanji she had studied all week mocked her with their meaningless shapes, or twisted themselves into likenesses of the girl in the photo. She stared at historical events and the dates on which they happened and could not convince herself that there was even such a thing as the past. Surely it had all happened yesterday, the Meiji Restoration and the bombing of Hiroshima and her dinner with Chisa. She could not even throw the ball properly; her pitches floated unnaturally or dropped without warning.

Then the day was over, and she was walking home affectlessly. She heard a pattering of feet behind her.

"Michie-chan!" It was Chisa. "Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry! I won't do it again. What did I do?"

"What?"

"You walked right by me in the hall! I called your name, but you wouldn't answer. You wouldn't even look at me!"

"It's not your fault. I'm sorry. Um." Michie racked her brain for something to tell Chisa. "I've been kind of . . . preoccupied."

"Oh. So . . . you're not mad at me?"

Michie shook her head. "No. Chisa-chan, I . . . I have to go."

"You do? But it's Saturday! I thought we could hang out and . . . and do stuff."

"No, Chisa-chan. I have to go to Tokyo. I have errands to run."

"Oh." Chisa slumped dejectedly. "But we're still friends, right? You don't... not like me?"

Michie shook her head again. "No. I mean, that's not it. I'm just not in a good place in my life right now." She bit back an urge to giggle hysterically. I'm in an evil place in my life. I'm in my killing-people phase. "Thank you for being my friend," she blurted, "but I have to go." She turned and fled down the street.

The train sped over a bridge and down the Shumida River toward Tokyo. Michie stared at the photo of Licorice, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. It wouldn't be long now. Once Michie had harbored dreams of being a doctor, of healing with her touch. They would call her the girl with the magic hands... then someone had wired eight ounces of plastique to her father's car, and everything had changed. Michie hadn't known what kind of work her father did, only that her father refused to discuss it, but when Sato had told her that he was a yakuza member, she had felt a terrible sense of correctness, of all the dark pieces finally fitting together. Sato had taken her in, trained her, taught her to kill and to obey, and given her a new, strange name. Foxglove. She still couldn't say it quite right, and didn't think of it as really meaning her. But she wasn't really Nakasone Michie, either. She wasn't anybody.

She put the photo away and looked at her watch. Half past two, according to Mickey. Would she be on time? She would have to apologize if she were late, but they surely wouldn't ask for the finger-cutting. Sato wouldn't do that to her.

Not for being late.

If she she didn't get off, but just stayed on the train... but after Tokyo was the sea. She could go north or south, but there was always the sea. But beyond the sea, there were Singapore and Bangkok, Hong Kong, Manila. Honolulu.

But I have to do this, she thought. I don't have a choice. The thought made her feel better, somehow.

She arrived in plenty of time, and made the call from the train platform. Sato picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Michie-chan. Are you ready.?"

"I think so."

"You sound... apprehensive."

"No. Yes. I don't know. A little." She laughed nervously.

"Afraid?"

"No, I... I don't like this."

"Why is that, Michie-chan?"

"Well... It seems... She seems so happy."

"Ah." Michie pictured Sato nodding sagely, eyebrows raised slightly as he considered the point. "And that should matter? If she were unhappy or angry, would you feel differently?"

Michie couldn't answer. Wordless thoughts pushed at her tongue, but she couldn't find the right shapes for them. Sato took her silence as acquiescence.

"I want you to go to the central plaza of the Kodama department store. A child will be put in danger there. With luck, this will bring out Licorice. After she has rescued the child, you are to take her out."

"Kill her."

"Yes." Sensing Michie's mood, he added, "It's a horrible, unpleasant task, Michie-chan, and it's only natural that it should repulse you. But it is your duty to overcome these feelings and fulfill your obligations to the Family. Do you understand?"

"Hai, Ojisan." Yes, Uncle. A click came over the line, then a dial tone.

The Kodama plaza was a carefully simulated jungle with a boat ride and a half-scale Indonesian temple. The temple stretched up the walls at one corner, nearly reaching a balcony on the next floor. Crocodiles lay lazily on the lower steps and in a pool surrounding the base. Skylights ran across the slanting roof many stories above and down much of the south wall. Sunlight angled down from them and dusted the treetops, but the ground level was dusky and cool. Mist drifted through the air from the watering system, and chirps, buzzes, clicks, and growls issued from hidden speakers. Michie wandered over a bridge across the blue fiberglass trough of the boat ride and settled herself on a bench near the fenced-off temple area. People moved past her, disappearing and reappearing along the paths. Hunger prodded at her belly, but her entire gut was knotted and sore from tension, and she didn't want to even think about eating.

She waited, tense, hyperalert, nerves afire. Minutes passed like days. She folded her arms across her belly and doubled over, trying to concentrate on her breathing. In. Out. Not too fast, you'll pass out. She closed her eyes, but her ears picked up a hundred tiny sounds, all of them nerve-wracking. Better with them open.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Forty. A full hour crept by, second by second, stretching endlessly. Another five minutes. Ten. Faintly, Michie began to hope nothing would happen. Then hope turned to fear. She would be waiting in this hell for all eternity.

Twenty. A woman's scream rang through the trees, and Michie fairly sobbed with relief. She scanned the paths and bushes. There. On the roof of the temple lay a boy, barely a toddler. And above him a young mother, pale and terrified, leaned desperately over the railing. Two guards restrained her as she began to climb bodily over the railing and, speaking quietly to her, escorted her away.

An old woman clucked disapproval by Michie's ear. "A careless woman, to drop her child like that. And a son, too."

"It wasn't like that," said another voice. "These two punks grabbed the boy and threw him over the railing. There was nothing she could do."

Michie turned. A small crowd had gathered behind her and was gaping shamelessly at the spectacle.

"This is a very dangerous situation," a man in a pin-striped suit observed sententiously.

"I hear this happens all the time in New York City," chattered one woman.

"New York City!" chorused three more.

"SHUT UP!" cried Michie. "Shut up, you stupid clowns!"

The old woman cuffed her on the temple, hard. "Don't speak to your elders like that, you horrible little girl!"

"Aren't the police going to come?" asked one young man. "Or the security guards? Or somebody?"

Michie suddenly realized that no, nobody was going to come. Either Licorice would show up and save the boy, or the boy would eventually fall off the temple and be devoured. The Family did nothing by half measures; the boy's danger was quite real. He was the bait in the trap, and she was the noose.

Michie fought her way out of the crowd, elbowing viciously. A woman floating by in a boat turned to her companion and said "Oh, look, dear, they're putting on a show at the ruined temple." Michie found herself standing on the bridge with no clear idea of where to go. Then someone brushed past her, and she caught a glimpse of bright red hair.

The crowd drew its breath as Licorice stepped off the bridge. She walked halfway to the fence and slowed to a stop. Michie gripped the railing as Licorice tilted her head, studying the roof of the temple. Then the girl began to run, two, three steps, and *leaped*, bounding over the fence and the pool and the heads of the astonished crowd as if skipping over a crack in the sidewalk. She landed among the crocs, stumbled slightly, then jumped easily to the rooftop as one bit at her ankle. She gathered the boy in her arms, turned, and leaped again, landing just a few yards from Michie. The crowd applauded as she set the boy down, and she smiled and waved at it. Michie half expected the mother to emerge from the crowd and snatch the boy up, but she did not appear. Neither did the boy run off into the crowd, but simply stood there, eyes bright and glassy. A look of uncertainty crossed Licorice's face, and she suddenly darted across the bridge, past Michie.

No! Michie spun and followed. I should've . . . Licorice turned sharply, entering the undergrowth, and Michie plunged after her, vegetation slapping at her face and arms. Emerging from the other side, Michie cast about desperately for Licorice, but saw a sea of dark heads with no sign of red.

But over there--a dark-haired girl with a long French braid, walking quickly away. Michie slipped into the crowd and began to track her, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Lights set among the trees began to flicker on as the girl made her way over to a group of food stalls. The girl had slowed, and was now walking quite lesiurely, so Michie was able to edge past her. She pulled out the picture and compared it to the girl, careful not to stare openly.

Her first impression was that they were two completely different people. But, try as she might, she couldn't fathom what that impression was based on. Both girls had the same build, the same hairstyle, and even the same strong jawline. She cast her mind back to Licorice's rescue of the child, but found her memories strangely imprecise. She could remember the hair color and the costume, but nothing about the face. Baffled, she circled the area as the girl bought some Yakitori. Maybe that's why no one's ever traced one of these girls. Maybe the magic hides them. She looked at the photo again. It resembles her. It really does. But I can't be sure.

She put the photo away. Anyway, I can't do it here. Too crowded. I'll have to wait 'till she's alone.

Tracking the girl was so like a game that Michie found herself enjoying it. Staying behind or to one side as the girl moved from shop to shop, moving ahead when she dawdled or browsed, or watching the girl's reflection in glass merchandise cases, Michie found the knot in her belly easing as she immersed herself in the pursuit. Sato had taught her this skill personally, and she had excelled at it, following randomly chosen people through crowded Tokyo streets for an hour or more. Then he would put a fatherly hand on her shoulder, and smile approvingly, and say "you did well, Michie-chan." She smiled at the memories.

The girl had stopped and was talking to a tall boy in a brown leather jacket. Michie moved closer.

"It was the one with hair like yours, you know, the red one?" said the boy. Michie spotted a water fountain behind the two and ducked past them, heading for it.

"Oh... really?" said the girl vaguely. "What was her name again?"

"Licorice," said the boy, sounding amused. "Her name is Licorice, Mariko-chan." Michie's stomach clenched as the cold water trickled into it. She braced herself against the fountain, head spinning. The girl said something, but she couldn't quite grasp it. She put her head down and took a few deep breaths.

"Are you all right?" The voice was close to her ear.

The girl was leaning over her, peering at her with concern. Michie straightened uncertainly and turned. The boy was a few feet away, watching the two of them. He was handsome. Michie gave him a tentative smile, which faded as her stomach twitched again.

"You look sick," the girl continued. "Do you feel like throwing up?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably. "Look I--I have to go. My shift is starting." He turned and jogged away.

The girl gaped at him as he went. "Oh!" she said indignantly. "Just like a man! As soon as things get messy, they just clear off."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"No." The girl smiled ruefully. "He's cute though, isn't he? I think I could put up with him."

Michie nodded, then grimaced. "Is there anything I can do?" the girl asked.

"Can you--" Michie felt horribly vile as she prepared her next words. "Can we get away from this crowd?"

Stars were appearing in the purple sky as the girl led Michie out of the building. They stood on a concrete bridge leading over a busy, narrow street to a modern parking structure. A light wind blew, a trifle too cold for Michie's comfort, but she opened her mouth and inhaled it anyway. It helped. The girl sat on the concrete railing and looked off into the metropolitan crazy quilt of Greater Tokyo.

"Are you a magic girl?" asked Michie awkwardly.

The girl seemed not to hear. Michie was about to repeat the question when the girl said "Why?"

"I saw the boy," said Michie. "The one on the temple roof. I've never seen anyone jump like that. And I... I thought I recognized you, later. Because of the hair. But I couldn't be sure and I... I don't know."

"I remember you," said the girl. "You were standing on the bridge. I bumped you as I went past. Have you been following me?"

Michie nodded mutely. The girl grimaced. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Strange how no one's worked it out before. They always say I look like her." She turned and looked back out over the city.

So it is her. It's her, and it's time, and this is the perfect place for it. I can't put it off anymore.

Do it.

Do it now.

She pulled the mist up and shifted, stepping towards the girl's back. She put her right hand on the girl's shoulder and reached around with her with her left, sending her power up beneath the girl's breasts and into her heart. The girl stiffened and turned her head, looking at Michie with eyes filled with shock and uncomprehending pain.

"I'm sorry," whispered Michie.

Then the girl fell backwards over the railing. Michie shrieked and snatched at the girl's leg as she went, but only succeeded in tearing a patch of fabric from her skirt. A bus roared out from under the bridge, striking the girl's body as it fell. There was a dull crunch, and the body emerged tumbling from behind the bus and settled, torn and broken, face down in a smear of blood. Michie gripped the railing, sucking in the darkening air. Headlights moved over the body. Traffic stopped, and people gathered around like ants. Michie turned and walked stiffly toward the parking garage.

Oh, it's over and gone and I've done and killed her and there's no way back now. No way back. And she fell and she broke and she bled and I did it. I don't even know why she died and I did it to her. The air was too thick to breathe, and Michie gasped and panted as she walked. I didn't want to make her bleed. She stumbled and caught herself against the railing. Her head buzzed and her hands and legs tingled. I don't want to be me anymore. She took another step and her legs collapsed, sending her sliding to the cold concrete, unconscious.

It couldn't have been more than a minute until she awakened. She rolled onto her back, realizing she had reverted to her normal form. She climbed clumsily to her feet, wiping away bits of gravel that clung to her cheek. The wail of sirens floated up from the street below. A strange heady feeling engulfed her, and she felt reborn, as if she had passed through some dark underworld and emerged from a crack in the earth to stand wide-eyed in the cool night.

But the feeling faded as she made her way back to the train station, leaving her tired and heartsick.

Sato was waiting in the apartment when she got back, sitting by the glass table. "You did well," he said, light glinting off the lenses of his glasses. "We're all very proud of you."

Michie stared at him and burst into loud, racking sobs. She buried her face in her hands. Sato scrambled to his feet and took her in his arms, pressing her face to his chest. "It's okay," he said. "I know. It's hard. It's a hard thing."

Michie raised her head. "I liked her. I really liked her. She was nice. Why did she have to die? Why did I have to do it?"

Sato took her over to the table and they settled down on some cushions. He cradled her against his chest as she cried. "It was necessary," he said. "She was interfering. We can't have people interfering with us." He paused, thinking. "When I was a little boy on the farm--did you know I grew up on a farm? A little farm on Hokkaido. Anyway, one year my father decided to raise rabbits, and I was given the job of taking care of the rabbits. Every day, after dinner, I went out to the hutch to feed them and clean their cages. I gave them names, and played with them, and saved bits of food from the table to give them."

"Then, one day, it came time to slaughter the rabbits. My father asked me to help him, but when the first rabbit lay on the chopping block, I quailed and ran. I hid behind the house and cried as my father killed them, one by one."

"My father told me not to be ashamed," continued Sato. "It meant that I had a kind heart--just as you have a kind heart, Michie. But he said I had to have a strong heart, too, because only a strong heart could do the things that needed to be done. What you did today needed to be done. I know it hurt you to do it, but you did do it, and I think you will find you have a strong heart, too."

"No," moaned Michie. "I don't want to have a strong heart. I don't I don't I don't. Please don't make me do it again. Please, Ojisan."

"Now, Michie-chan," said Sato. "It's late, and I think it's time you went to sleep." He got up and lay out Michie's sleeping mat and comforter and placed her gently onto the mat. He removed her shoes, tucked the comforter around her, and slipped Chan-chan into her arms. "Good night," he said. "Tomorrow is Sunday, so try to rest as much as you can. I'll be by to see how you're doing." He kissed her on the temple, then turned out the lights. Michie heard the door open and close and the lock click.

She lay there in the dark for a long time, clutching Chan-chan and weeping quietly. Eventually, she slept.