We are taken back days prior to the Germain and Rika meeting to observe the Okinawa Group and their plans for their main mission: Akame Protection. What will we learn?
MIWA OKINAWA. YU OKINAWA. ICHIGO OKINAWA.
These three are members of the Okinawa Group—specifically, they are second-in-command. Technically third, if we're being precise, but Koji has never had any urge to lead the group, so Maomao assumed that role in his place. When Maomao isn't leading the charge, these three take control of their own mini-groups within the organization and carry out missions independently.
All three are relatively equal in strength and cunning. If I dared to give you their full descriptions, they would most likely kill both you and me. So for now, you'll have to imagine their appearances. As a common denominator, however, each has black hair. That much I can safely offer.
The infrastructure of the capital was, for lack of a better word, in shambles.
Politically. Structurally. Psychologically.
RING! RING!
The tiny bell above the door chimed as a man entered.
The shop specialized in weaponry and legal firearms—as indicated by the poster outside and the abundance of weapons encased in glass or hung along the walls. Rifles. Pistols. Blades of various makes. A veritable arsenal presented as commerce.
The newcomer was impeccably dressed. A deluxe suit, white with purple interior, tailored to perfection. A fedora completed the ensemble, angled just so. He wasted no time, heading directly to the counter and adjusting his button with practiced elegance.
Behind the counter sat a man reading the local newspaper.
"COUNT SAINTS INCOMING! ARRIVAL STILL UNKNOWN!" screamed the headline.
"Excuse me." The suited man's voice was smooth, practiced. "I would like to purchase an AK47-290."
The man behind the counter nodded slowly. He bent down, opened a small compartment, and produced a pen and notebook. After finding a blank page, he looked up expectantly.
"How much and to whom?"
"250,000 to Cynthia Hospital." A pause. "Codename: 'Puppet Surgeon.'"
'Well,' the counter man thought, 'that's on the nose.'
BZZZT—BREAKING NEWS! Due to the current situation in Loliwe, the Vatican government has decided to send the second-in-command of the Vatican, codename 'Zeus,' to take legal control of the government until a formal election can be held later this year...
The radio announcement faded into the background of Zaya's shop.
"Well," the suited man murmured, mostly to himself, "this might not be good."
The man behind the counter continued taking notes—but slowly, inconspicuously, he raised his eyes to study the customer.
"Job not going as planned?" he asked mildly.
"You could assume that." The suited man leaned on the counter, the picture of casual frustration. "I don't really get this whole Akame business, honestly."
"Seems pretty simple and straightforward."
"That's the problem I'm having." A shake of the head. "Nothing they ever do is that simple. They always have a grand plan. Some scheme for the future." He gestured vaguely. "It feels weird that they're going through all this trouble for one man."
"Even though he's regarded as a traitor?"
"How many people are regarded as traitors in their eyes?" The man's voice sharpened. "To them, that word has little meaning anymore. Just talking back to the Pope is an act of war. People can be killed for that alone."
He turned, surveying the shop's contents with a sweeping gaze.
"It's a really sick joke. Now they're sending their own forces here for the sole purpose of taking over, and they think they're so slick—some covert ops type shit—that we can't tell they're planning to seize control." His jaw tightened. "The fact that they don't give a shit is disheartening. When will this bloodshed ever end?"
The man behind the counter tore a page from his notebook and slid it across the surface.
"Here."
"Yo, thanks." The suited man pocketed it smoothly. "So what do you think about all this?"
"Interesting theory." The counter man's voice was flat, disinterested. "But that's not really something I'm concerned with. The man was a Calamity. Soon he'll face the required amount of justice."
The suited man nodded, apparently satisfied. "Cool. From one dealer to another—you best watch out. Who knows what kind of people are lurking out here?"
He flipped his fedora in a final gesture and made for the exit.
RING! RING!
The door closed behind him.
Suddenly, at the corner of the counter, a woman in all black appeared—materializing from shadow as if she'd been there all along.
"He was trying too hard," she observed.
"An amateur. New blood, I'd like to believe."
"Think he's worth checking out?"
The counter man considered. "That suit—hand-tailored. Expensive. I caught a whiff of his perfume as well. I'd wager he moves in a massive circle of intrinsically tied millionaires."
"Oh?" The woman's eyebrow arched. "Why do you say that?"
"The way he speaks—too outgoing. Too confident. Showcases a ton of pride with zero restriction. That means he's not a regular operative who prides himself in his work. So it has to be something else. The suit and perfume indicate money. First guess."
"The way he talked about the Vatican..." The woman's voice trailed off thoughtfully. "He was definitely trying too hard to fake it. Who just goes around spouting blasphemy like that to people they don't know?"
"True. But at the very least, it wasn't baseless." The counter man leaned back. "Perhaps he was looking for a lead on something. I wonder what would have happened if I'd just agreed with his statement." A pause. "Maybe it's a good thing I was critical from the get-go."
"Speaking of which..." The woman's eyes glittered. "Is he a good target?"
The man behind the counter thought for a long moment. Then, from his sleeve, he produced a business card and tossed it to her.
HAMPTON INC. was all it read.
"Never heard of it," she said.
"Neither have I. I have a feeling he's involved in some sort of money laundering operation. Or a pyramid scheme. That's the only reason I can see them having a physical card to give out for recruitment. Otherwise, it's just dumb."
He stood, stretching.
"I'll ask Yu-kun to run a diagnosis on the card and the company. Meanwhile..."
"I'll ask around." The woman nodded. "See what I can find. Gotcha."
FWOOP.
She vanished as silently as she'd appeared—swallowed by shadows, leaving no trace.
As a rule of thumb, safe houses were never to be left unmanned. They served too vital a purpose—sending messages, facilitating black market deals, connecting the underground network that kept sorcerers operational. The usual, if you will.
For now, this particular safe house—Zaya's shop—was under the protection of the Okinawa Group. Zaya himself still hadn't returned. Undine had taken one for the team and departed with Koji and the others. So Maomao had seen fit to take over Undine's duties until Zaya's eventual return.
The man behind the counter had seen countless people enter and exit over the past days. Each with a distinct look. Each with their own story.
But this man—this suited, fedora-wearing, suspiciously wealthy amateur—had stood out. His lack of professional tact in this line of business was a glaring red flag. Which was why the counter man had chosen not to engage with him as he had with previous customers.
'It does have me curious, though,' he mused, staring at the door through which the man had departed. 'Why in the world would they hire someone like that?'
TO BE CONTINUED!