“ASCLEPIUS!!”
“WHAT?!” I snap back, irritated, as SIRO-PI storms into my dimly lit room with the annoying kid trailing her. “WHY DON’T YOU KNOCK?!! AND I SAID I DON’T WANT THE BRAT IN MY ROOM!”
“Shut up and just keep him here while we clean the rest of the flat. Your room is the only one that doesn’t reek after all. Oh, and check out your DMs too,” she instructs, mockingly shaping her fingers like a phone.
“For fuck’s sake!” I hiss, my eyes narrowing. “I’ve already read them; I’m not some slowpoke!”
“Good.” SIRO-PI retorts with a smirk as she slams the door shut, leaving the boy awkwardly standing in the middle of the room.
I eye him critically for a few moments. A wave of confusion seems to wash over his otherwise blank expression. He glances around for a comfortable spot, inevitably settling his gaze on my neatly made bed.
Anticipating his next move, I interrupt sharply, “Don’t even think about sitting on my bed!” Just as he’s about to lower himself onto it, he catches my warning. “Sit on the floor, and if you make a sound, I swear I’ll throttle you.”
Without uttering a word, I hear the muted thud of his body settling onto the carpeted floor, allowing me to refocus on my computer screen.
“Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, had a quick loo break. Hihihi. Anyway, where were we? Oh right, we were discussing—”
“Are you a V-Tuber?” The boy’s voice cuts through the ambient noise of my room.
Visibly annoyed, I instantly mute my stream and swivel my chair to face him, my eyes flashing dangerously. “Didn’t I tell you to keep that mouth shut?”
“Why are you cosplaying if you’re a V-Tuber? They don’t see you anyway.”
“I like to be fully immersed in my character!” I snap, defensive about my choices.
“And who is that character?” he asks, eyeing my elaborate attire.
“It’s Sonohara Anri! Not that you would know who that is!” I retort, feeling the weight of my frustration. “Anyway, can you keep it down so I can get back to what I was doing?”
“Okay, okay. But at least give me something to do. I’m dying of boredom here.”
Before pushing the unmute button, I sigh audibly. “Pick out a manga from my shelves, but make sure you return it to its exact spot when you’re finished.”
I hear the shuffling of books as he searches for something to catch his interest among my rare and obscure manga collection. The thought of his unclean fingers handling my treasures sends a shiver of discomfort down my spine. But I really don’t have the time or patience to entertain him any longer.
“I’m really sorry, guys,” I say, returning to my stream with a lighthearted laugh. “You just heard my younger cousin. I’m looking after him for a bit while his mum’s tied up. Anyway, back to our topic—the recent event. It’s been all over the news lately. Have any of you had to evacuate? From what I’ve heard, it’s already—”
“WOW! You have the complete original Sailor Moon collection!” the boy’s voice rings out, filled with astonishment. “I’ve read that these are super hard to come by!”
Groaning internally, I mute my stream again, seeing a barrage of 'lols' and 'keks' popping up in the chat. “For the love of—Didn’t I ask you to stay quiet?” I shoot him a stern look, catching him practically starry-eyed, clearly estimating the worth of my treasures.
“Sorry, it’s just … these are all incredibly rare. How’d you manage to get them?” His voice held a hint of reverence.
“Well…” I trail off, a smug grin forming. “You haven’t even glimpsed my most treasured collection, which is tucked away securely. Not that I’m about to show it to someone like you! Just pick a manga and go sit somewhere!”
“Alright, alright. But I’ve got to ask: why do you have so much GL? Are you a himejoshi or something?”
“You never stop with the questions! If you don’t keep quiet, I swear I’ll…” My threat remains hanging in the air.
“Alright, alright!” He holds up his hands in mock surrender, then plops down on the floor, clutching a volume of “Dear Brother.”
I observe him for a brief moment, ensuring that he’s engrossed in his reading and won’t cause any further interruptions. With a small nod to myself, I resume my streaming.
“Man, handling kids is no joke, right?” I start off, amusement lacing my voice. “This one might just end up auctioned off to some shady organization at this rate!” I chuckle, picturing the absurd scenario.
The chat is buzzing with activity today, comments flooding in at a rapid pace.
My eyes dart across the screen, catching an intriguing remark. I decide to play along, “You know what? I wouldn’t be opposed to shipping this exceedingly troublesome Tiban off to the terrorists in Chinatown. LOL! Just kidding, of course.”
Almost instantly, a notification pings. I can’t help but smirk, impressed by how swiftly the very people I had in mind took the bait.
For as long as I can remember, my life revolved around a single thing: perfecting the art of killing. It’s not the upbringing that most girls from quaint towns dream of. Hell, I didn’t get to live those dreams. Instead, I was cradled in the world of underground warfare, deceit, and shadows.
It all began with my parents, and if you’re wondering how a child comes into such a sinister line of work, the answer is inheritance. My parents were no ordinary folks; they were feared assassins in the underworld. Unlike the stories you might have heard, my folks weren’t pawns for any agency or syndicate. They operated independently, a fact that had earned them a hefty number of both admirers and enemies.
As their only child, it was evident that they didn’t want me to be vulnerable. They were determined I would never be a damsel in distress. My fifth birthday gift was my first gun, and while other kids were learning how to ride bikes, I was learning how to dismantle, clean, and reassemble weapons. By the time I was seven, my aim was deadly, better than most adults in our peculiar community.
When kids my age were reading fairy tales, I was memorizing blueprints of structures, understanding vantage points, and studying escape routes. Bedtime stories for me were past operations my parents undertook, discussing tactics and decisions that would make or break a mission.
My training wasn’t limited to firearms. Unarmed combat, advanced stealth techniques, and even the intricate art of poison-making were added to my growing list of skills. My parents believed in holistic training. I remember my mother’s words: “To be truly great, one must be versatile.”
Ironically, my weapon of choice was always the sniper rifle. Despite mastering various weaponry, the sniper held a special allure. I couldn’t even properly hold one until I was 10, but once I did, I felt an unparalleled connection. Those moments of intense focus, lining up a shot, contrasted sharply with the darker moments of my life.
Because it wasn’t all grim. My parents loved me, and in their unique way, they always ensured I had a semblance of a normal childhood. I remember the time when my mother, after teaching me a complex sniping technique, took me out for ice cream, just like any other parent would. Or the time when my mum and I baked cookies after she had finished teaching me about various lethal herbs. It was a juxtaposition of worlds, but it was our reality, and I loved every bit of it.
However, the world we lived in was dangerous. There were no permanent allies, just temporary partnerships. The constant fear of betrayal was real, and soon, it caught up with us. A trusted contact sold us out. I was only thirteen. I remember the night vividly. The noise of boots, the blinding flashbangs, and then, silence. I was away during the raid, on one of my solo training expeditions. When I came back, my world had shattered. My parents were gone.
I was alone, but not helpless. Their training kicked in. Using a false identity, I roamed the streets, trying to make sense of the chaos, to find out who betrayed us. I survived by taking up contracts, killing for money, just as my parents did. But now, it was personal. Every hit, every bullet, was a message to those who took them away from me.
For years, I was on the run, changing names, identities, appearances. Even my age was a facade. I took the name SWAN, an homage to my parents who stayed loyal to each other until the very end.
Much like swans who find a mate to live with and share almost their entire life with, a symbol of enduring fidelity and affection. A connection that’s deeper than one can imagine, where two beings become inseparable, sharing their joys, their sorrows, and their journeys. It was a name that embodied the depth of their bond, a testimony to their unwavering love and the eternal promise they held for each other, reflecting a level of commitment that was profound and all-encompassing.
It served as a constant reminder, a motivation for me to find such undying love and loyalty in a world that could be so cruel and unforgiving. They had always been a beacon of true love for me, showing that even in a world fraught with danger and uncertainties, love could not only survive, but thrive, growing stronger with each passing day.
For years, I held onto this fervent belief about love. I relentlessly sought a reflection of it, sometimes in the most improbable places. My search led to heartbreak after heartbreak, but none struck as brutally as when I discovered my girlfriend with another.
In that charged instant, the pain wasn’t just from her betrayal. It was the crumbling of an ideal, a sacred notion of love I cherished. Everything blurred. All I could see was them, their entwined figures looking like a cruel mockery of the profound love I yearned for.
Gripping my sniper rifle, an extension of my very being, I reacted from a place of raw pain and instinct. Rage clouded my judgment, and in a swift, almost surreal moment, I shot them both. The sound reverberated, but it couldn’t match the intensity of the scream within my soul. This wasn’t just about vengeance; it was the chaotic crash between my cherished beliefs and the ruthless reality in front of me.
While the rest of the world might see me as a weapon, Major saw potential in me, beyond the kill contracts. He became my anchor in this chaotic world. Even if he’s a real motherfucker at times.
Reminiscing back at the rainy rooftop from which I shot the people I cared the most about, I realized something. My past, no matter how bloody or tragic, shaped me into who I am. And as I rode with Major, that one time in the car, wiping the blood off my face, I couldn’t help but wonder: if given a chance, would I choose any other life?
Probably not.
Standing amidst the downpour, my thoughts drown in a whirlwind of doubt and fear. The arrival of the White Snake, the palpable shift in Major’s demeanour, and the anxiety of being separated from him consume me.
Throughout this mission, there’s this nagging dread of the day it all ends—the day Major finally reaches his goal and no longer needs me or any of us.
But with each passing moment, every milestone we reach, my worst fears creep closer. The very goal we strive for might be the thing that pulls us apart. It’s not just a mission; it’s a sword dangling over our bond. And the sharp edge of that looming finale pushes me to the brink.
I feel the need to do something, to assert my worth, to cement my place as indispensable. Major has to see that without me, his mission can’t be whole. This storm of emotions makes even extreme actions, like kidnapping a Tiban child, seem rational. The idea surfaces in my mind—if I have the child, a valuable hostage, it could serve as leverage against potential threats from the agency. It’s not purely about the mission, not about victory or defeat, but about showing Major the depths I’m willing to plunge to earn his approval. To prove my unwavering commitment. Holding such a card might be the very thing that guarantees my indispensability.
If I can make Major recognize my efforts, my sacrifices, and my sheer tenacity, maybe our relationship will transcend the confines of a mere mission. Maybe then, he’ll view me as more than an expendable asset, more than just another cog in the machine.
As I stand here, drenched from the rain and lost in my memories, a revelation hits me like a thunderbolt. All this time, the desperation I’ve felt, the longing for validation, and the depth of the relationships I’ve forged weren’t just rooted in romance or attraction. They were a deeper yearning, a desire to fill the void that was created when I lost my parents. The essence of their bond, their loyalty, and the love they shared—it’s what I’ve been searching for all my life.
The betrayals I’ve faced, the heartbreaks, and even my fierce loyalty to Major—all of it stems from an underlying need to recreate the warmth, security, and unshakeable bond of a family. A family that was ripped away from me far too early.
When I saw my girlfriend with someone else, it wasn’t just a lover’s betrayal—it was the sting of family abandoning me again. Major’s fluctuating demeanour and the potential of being cast aside by him isn’t just about losing a comrade. It’s the terror of once again being orphaned by someone I considered family.
Every action, every desperate move to prove myself—it’s not just about the mission or our current predicament. It’s about desperately clinging to a semblance of family, of proving that I can be worthy of that kind of love and loyalty again. It’s about showing Major, and the world, that I deserve a place where I belong, unconditionally.
Major might never understand the depths of this realization. He might never truly see the scars and voids that my parents’ loss left me with. But in this moment, amidst the torrential rain and the storm within me, I finally understand myself. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the first step in finding the family I’ve been yearning for.
As the realization sets into my marrow, grounding me in a truth too visceral, I shake my head as if to clear it, as if to dislodge the stormy turmoil from within. Taking a hesitant step back, the torrential downpour enveloping me with each step I take.
With heavy strides, I descend into the parking lot. My heart pounds erratically in my chest, a drumline to my swirling, chaotic thoughts, the fear and revelation still echoing loudly in my mind.
It is almost surreal how I find a peculiar comfort in the mundane as I step onto the cold concrete of the parking lot, the reality grounding me, pulling me away from the precipice of my spiralling mind. The neon city lights around seem to smirk at my drenched form, witnesses to my inner turmoil as they shine unbothered, casting eerie shadows that dance in harmony with my heartbeat.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone, the screen bursting to life as if eager to distract me, to offer a refuge, a slice of normality in my whirlpool of darkness. I navigate to the app with a kind of desperation, a hunger for something grounding, something unabashedly joyous to hold onto.
And there she is, my favourite V-Tuber, AnriStream, her animated face lighting up the screen, instantly warming my rain-cold skin with her virtual smile. I find myself leaning against the cold metal of a nearby car, my breathing slowly steadying as I immerse myself in the live stream. Her cheerful voice pierces through the drumming rain, pulling me further away from the edge of despair.
She’s talking animatedly about something inconsequential, her joy infectious, her silliness a balm on my raw and exposed nerves. Her world, the one she shares with her audience, is so starkly different from mine, one of light and uninhibited joy, a galaxy away from the darkness that clings to my existence.
Suddenly, amidst her jovial chatter, AnriStream mentions a Tiban she jokes about selling. Her voice drips with jest as she says, “This one might just end up auctioned off to some shady organization at this rate!” A twinkle of mischief dances in her eyes.
Amused by her random comment, I smirk, momentarily forgetting the chaos that surrounded me just minutes ago. The jest about the Tiban has my curiosity piqued, however. Is it just a joke or is there some truth to it? The world I know, after all, thrives on secrets hidden in plain sight.
Hoping to gauge her sincerity, I type quickly into the chat: “What kind of organization would you sell him to?”
AnriStream chuckles, her eyes scanning the chat before landing on my message. She grins playfully and responds, “You know what? I wouldn’t be opposed to shipping this exceedingly troublesome Tiban off to the folks in Chinatown. LOL! Just kidding, of course.” The twinkle in her eyes suggests mischief, but also something more, a hint of intrigue that leaves me pondering her true intentions.
Pulling down the notification shade on my phone, I quickly navigate to her profile and send her a direct message:
“Hey there! Love the stream. Quick question though: Were you serious about the Tiban? I might know something about the terrorists.”
I press send, my heart rate spiking a bit. It’s a gamble, reaching out to her like this. But if there’s even a small chance it’s true, it might be another card in my hand. And right now, I need all the cards I can get.
To my surprise, AnriStream’s response comes swiftly, her enthusiasm palpable even in text form: “BET!” accompanied by a cheeky thumbs-up.
