In your eyes, I see what's on my mind. Who: Sato, Mischa (NPC), Dave (NPC) What: Sato entrusts Mischa to Marijuana…and vice versa. Where: Marijuana’s shop/safe house When: Saturday night
Not surprisingly, Mischa kept protesting even when they were already in the car, nearly at their destination.
“I’ll never get any work done there.”
“Nonsense,” Sato said with brutal cheeriness. “If you can organize a show in Paris while bedridden in Osaka, you can certainly manage New York. Everything’s within emailing distance.”
“But you don’t honestly think Ares will target you. Me.” It wasn’t a question.
“That, regardless.” Sato’s gaze remained placidly on the road, her voice and hands calm. “It’s a possibility, non?”
Mischa snorted; Sato smiled. No, in truth, the Baku didn’t think her affairs were in danger from the war god. Will Graham had been an unfortunate accident, nothing more. And whatever Ares’ grievance over the kimono theft, she heavily doubted it’d lead his temper to her door. But it was a possibility.
…and that made it an opportunity.
She could feel Mischa’s quick eyes on her face, watching and weighing. The girl’s tone was purposely casual. “The drug god. You ate his dreams, haven’t you?”
“Mh-hmm.” The boon, willingly given and easily earned, had been a potent treat. It had also jump started the gears in her mind.
“Do you…like him?”
Sometimes, Sato thought, Mischa was terribly young. “He’s resourceful, intelligent, and powerful.”
“So you don’t trust him.” Again, not a question. Young--but clever.
“For three very good reasons.”
“Hmph.” Her protégé settled back in her seat, tucking a length of long fair hair behind her left ear. The gesture was uncharacteristic and deliberate; it openly revealed the hearing aid. “That explains why you’re sending him the helpless mortal. Am I to play the cripple or the fool while there?”
“You are,” Sato said unperturbed, “to be your standard, charming, wonderful self. Be courteous. Be appreciative. Be nice. Mind your manners and your surrounding.”
“Spy.”
“Observe.” Sato turned onto the street, tasting the artificial serenity coating the area deepen. “Evaluate the situation according to your best judgment.”
She smoothly parked near the shop and turned off the engine, but didn’t immediately get out. Instead, Sato turned to take her assistant’s chin in her hand.
“Mischa.” The girl’s eyes widened instinctively at the tone. “If you can’t do this--don’t. I am not ordering you. None of this need concern you, Mi-chan. It’s unfair, really, to have your wellbeing involved for my sake. So if you don’t want to do this…well. You’re only human. I understand.”
The familiar, quiet eyes stared at Sato for a moment, then two, then three. Then Mischa pulled away, pushing open the car door with unnecessary force.
“Sometimes, Sato-san,” she said, back and shoulders telling what the turned away face did not, “you act more human than you think.”
Sato watched her walk away with mixed satisfaction. At fifteen, Mischa wouldn’t have balked at this request--or anything else Sato asked. At twenty, she would’ve fought tooth and claw, er, nail. Now…
Sato would’ve signed if it was in her habit, or nature, to do so. But it was neither, and so the Baku merely got out of the car to follow her aide. By the time she caught up with Mischa, the girl’s expression was pleasant and attentive, innocuously nice.