twiststheblade

The silence is downright unnerving, so she breaks it again.

"You alright? You're not...mad we came, are you?"

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I sense an unspoken need in her, and that makes me feel a bit better. I take the final step. The one that brings me within inches of her. And, throwing caution to the wind, I slip my arms around her slight form.

"I don't care if you are."

I embrace her tightly, gun still in my hand.

"It's good to see you, love. I missed you. So much."

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Miho doesn't hold her back - but she does relax, just a little. She still has her blades out, likewise, so it's probably as good thing.

She is rather conscious of the gun, however.

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The rain continues to fall as I hold her. It spills out of my now-drenched hair, coursing down my face in warm rivulets.

I'm soaked.

I hardly notice.

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Miho rests her head on Goldy's shoulder, wet hair sticking damply to both of their faces. If she is crying, the tears are lost in the rain.

She can't sheathe the blades, and she won't drop them, and she can't do anything but hold them by her sides. She can curl into Goldy's embrace.

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And still she says nothing. I try and convince myself that actions speak loudest, and keep on hugging. It feels good. And yet wrong. Everything feels wrong. I realize that I need to hear her say something, my name, a greeting, anything. And somehow I know that's not going to happen.

She's damaged. Again. Worse than ever before. And I have no idea how to fix her.

That hurts.

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Miho pulls away.

Only for a second, though, only to re-sheathe blades (they'll need caring for, later. They're far too wet), before slipping back into Goldy's arms, and this time her own arms slip up in between them, fingers curling hard into the taller woman's shirt.

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There's a chillingly empty sensation in the pit of my stomach. Not painful, but so very unpleasant. I know what it is. But I try and ignore it.

Time passes—seconds, minutes... I've no idea—until I eventually release her and reholster my weapon beneath my sodden T-shirt.

"Who did this to you?"

I'm quite positive, now, that the culprits have already been dealt with. And I know she won't answer. But I have to ask.

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Miho pushes her hair back from her face, flicking rain-water off her hands onto the ground. She shrugs, a little, face impassive. Does it really matter? You can't change the past.

She takes a few steps away, pauses, and looks over her shoulder.

Are they coming? It's raining.

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Mary Anne's been quiet the last few minutes; she couldn't leave, but she didn't want to interrupt.

She gives Miho a nod and starts following her.

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So many questions yammering at me, and bouncing uncontrollably around my head. Where's my Miho, the one I knew and loved? How deep is she buried? How long is it going to take to get her back?

I don't vocalize those though.

"Uh... where are we going?"

It's not that I don't trust this Miho. I don't like following anyone blindly. Especially not in strange places.

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Miho looks back, and frowns. Only for a moment, though, because she manages to turn the frown into a smile. A small, cracked smile, but a smile none-the-less. She stops, waits for Goldy to catch up, and holds out a hand.

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Mary Anne's a little less concerned with where they're going; instead, she's taking in the scenery. Basin City is new territory for her.

She glances back at Goldy, jerking her head in Miho's direction. "Think she's about to show us."

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My heart flutters happily in response to the smile. It's transitory though, and soon replaced by heaviness again.

I take her tiny little hand in mine and say nothing else.

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Miho does give a tiny squeeze to Goldy's hand, as she leads the two blondes through the streets. It's warren-like, Old Town, and just how Miho knows where she's going is an interesting question.

She obviously does, though, because they eventually reach the bottom of an apartment building that looks just the same as all of the other buildings.

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Mary Anne looks up.

"Home sweet home, huh?"

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Something like that.

A key opens the door, and Miho heads across the (spotlessly clean, actually, if somewhat colourless) foyer towards the stairs. There's no elevator.

She begins to ascend. And yes, she lives on the top floor. The fourteenth floor, to be exact.

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I traipse along behind, having let go of her hand a few blocks back.

I'm less scared now, and more angry. The fury is building inside me, like a huge storm massing at the edge of my consciousness, dark and malevolent; like a pack of hungry rottweilers waiting to be unleashed.

I want payback for my loss. For her loss. I want blood.

But that doesn't seem too likely here.

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Up the stairs they go.
(three of swords)
Mary Anne seems to have absorbed some of Miho's silence, keeping her mouth shut once they crossed the threshold.
(ten of swords)
There's things here she doesn't understand, and flashes of her sword siblings' influence. She doesn't like it.

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It gnaws at me, eating away at my self-control. It shoves at me like a petulant school boy.

I want to lash out at something.

Anything...

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One the fourteenth floor is reached, Miho unlocks the door, pauses on the threshold, and tilts her head, inviting her unexpected guests in. She pauses, because this is her space. And no-one comes her. Well, Molly had, back when she still needed caring for. Sometimes she still does. And sometimes, Miho doesn't turn her away.

The apartment is small, fairly bare, very clean. The window, which is surprisingly large, lacks curtains or blinds, and is shielded only by the rain sheeting down it. Miho crosses the room silently, heading for the bathroom. She returns with towels, hands one to each of her guests, and begins wringing the worst of the wet out of her hair.

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"Thanks," she murmurs, accepting the towel and beginning to dry off her hair. After that, she turns her attention to her knives.

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Vaguely reminiscent of her room at the bar, at least in terms of the scant furnishings and minimalism. I don't like it. It just adds to the feeling of emptiness that's welling in my gut.

I... need to turn my attention elsewhere, so I make some peremptory efforts at drying my hair. It's way past simple recovery though, and my rubbing just leaves it horribly frizzy.

Unsurprisingly, this doesn't help my mounting rage.

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