There were a couple of those slow, almost frozen moments until the words sunk in, and then O-Ren nodded. How many times had this story played out before, with herself, with Bill, with the blood-soaked Bride, boots slipping on crimson-stained floors and the smell of gunpowder?

Bill had been her mistake. She hadn't closed the circle, and it had swallowed her until she'd been the one at the top of the stairs.

There were kinks in the story this times, knots in the circle to keep it from moving. O-Ren blinked, light exploding behind her eyes as if the Buddha himself had slapped her. The world throbbed in perfect understanding, vibrant hues.

With her own gun held out to cover the gap she was about to set, O-Ren took three quick steps. The pistol's muzzle swept past Arya's cheek until O-Ren had one wiry arm around Arya's neck and the other arm holding off any enemy fire. She pressed her mouth against Arya's, catching roughly at Arya's lower lip.

"Ganbatte yo," she whispered, and slipped her gun into the waist of Arya's pants.

Her feet were light on the stairs as she ascended.