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Homeplot (2)
The Empty Room in Osaka
Apartment 217, in a nondescript block of an apartment building on the outskirts of downtown Osaka, Japan.
Laying on a bare floor, a clunky mobile phone began to ring. Despite the amount of money such a phone would cost in the late part of the eighties, before the big rush really began, it wasn't even the most expensive item in the room. The real treasures in this tiny, bare apartment had to do with what was in the closet, which bore a simple combination lock.
The ringing seeped into O-Ren's consciousness even as she struggled to wake up. How late had she been out last night? That wasn't like her, and surely Angua and Dean would have had questions. Was she sick, then? Why the heavy haze around her? The fucking ringing was beginning to wear itself out, too.
O-Ren snapped up from her futon so quickly that she had to brace against the window. She was no longer even a bit sleepy, so aware she couldn't keep her hands from shaking as she patted herself down. Same self that had gone to bed the night before.
But a look around confirmed this was her old apartment. Only a few pots to boil ramen in. Blood spots she'd never bothered to clean up. Locked closet. Mobile phone ringing on the ground. She'd cut the regular telephone line herself, preferring this.
It stopped ringing, and O-Ren took a deep breath. "What the fuck."
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She hadn't quite been expecting this. "...is this the right store?" she asked.
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"I'd like to see the back room. I'm planning for a big night, and I need many supplies."
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They were just things, after all. It was the idea of any of them as applied to her, personally, that gave her pause.
So she ignored that part and just set about studying everything, sidling curiously through aisles.
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"You can just wear what you have on."
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She crinkled her brow, clearly in the throes of indecision. She couldn't decide which was worse.
Although, if there was an option that didn't include a skirt...
"I thought you said we couldn't be schoolgirls?" she said.
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She dropped a handful of cash on the counter.
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She did start for the corner, though. She also stopped before she got there.
She knew jeans. Jeans didn't have that as much flexibility as she liked.
She wondered how the leather compared.
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"Ready?"
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"Always," she said.
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She held the grenade out. "It's the only one. I've had practice; don't worry about hitting me."
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But she wasn't about to let O-Ren down. She bit her lip, and took the grenade.
"He won't get away," she said, in lieu of anything else that was on her mind.
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Not this time. She would see it all done right.
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Then she smiled, darkly, just at the fringes of one side of her mouth. "I think your list is shorter than mine. Let's go back it shorter."
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She nodded, sharply. "We'll steal a ride. It's a long way from here."
With that, she headed out to where she'd seen the motorcycle outside. A small screwdriver from her bag, and she was popping open panels and cutting wires.
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Now, though, now they didn't have time for lessons. There was business to attend to.
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One leg up and over, and luckily, whoever owned this wasn't that much bigger than her. She looked back at Arya.
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Not far now.
"Keep watch for it," she called over the noise.
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She liked motorcycles, she decided. Horses were still good, but the speed, the power... she had to remind herself they were on serious business, and not just let out a whoop.
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In fact, they came to the exterior of the House of Blue Leaves far too quickly for her taste. Assuming she survived, O-Ren vowed that they would leave on the bike as well.
"This is it," she said quietly.
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"Is there a back way in, or do we have to go in through the front?"
She was remembering the film. In particular, the Crazy 88. At the time, it had seemed impressive. Now, it verged towards the intimidating.
Fear cuts deeper than swords, she reminded herself.
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O-Ren parked the bike, killing the motor quietly, and began the process of re-arming herself. Sword on each hip, gun in both a shoulder and thigh holster. She closed her eyes, feeling the cool breeze on her burning face.
Before, she'd been blind, but she saw now.
"I'm going to kill Bill."
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She wished she had her Braavosi-style swords. Still, she'd make do.
"Let's not stand around here, then," she said, sizing up the building, then stepping forward.
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There might have been nearly that many, though, swarthy and bulky men who seemed barely contained by their cheap black suits. Bright flashes of tattoo peered up from behind sleeves and buttons. Yakuza, all of them. She noted, in a quick, numb way, that their weapons varied from sword to chain to bat. No guns? It seemed unlikely.
And there, at the top of the stair, lounged a figure in white. Her vision crossed and blurred and she couldn't tell if it was her own self, twenty years from now, waiting for the Bride to ascend, or if it was the Man in White.
It was Bill, of course, and in lazy, patient Japanese, he gave the order to begin.
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Still. She couldn't help but feel like the kindly man wouldn't have approved. But the kindly man wasn't here, and this was O-Ren's world.
And O-Ren's enemy, but that didn't stop her from, out of pure instinct, pulling a gun and aiming for the top of the stair.
But the room was already moving, and she had to change targets as the first of the yakuza came at them.
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