INTERLUDE - FRANCISCA OJOU - PART THREE

She was growing increasingly worried that Deadline wasn't going to show up. Every minute or so she'd turn her head and glance at the clock above her rarely-used stove. It was six ten already. Ten minutes past the time where Deadline should have been knocking, and yet there was no sign of the woman.

Francisca let out a sigh. Maybe something had come up? She really didn't need to worry herself so much. It was nothing too special. A discussion, likely touching on some shared business, then a light dinner. That was all.

She considered walking into her home gym and punching a bag for a few minutes, just to have something to spend all of that energy on, but no, it wasn't necessary. She could control herself.

The last week had been a long one. After her escape from the kidnappers, she'd been afforded some time to herself to decompress. She'd instead started her training. She needed to improve herself.

Deadline was proof that someone, even someone new to D-rank, could be an exceptional threat, and it didn't seem as if Deadline had the resources of a conglomerate behind her. Francisca was determined to catch up.

Not that it was a competition, exactly, but... she didn't like that kernel in her gut that reminded her that there were others so much better than she was. She would become strong. Physically strong, magically. She had daily training sessions lined up and courses to study her magic with some of the best mages that could teach her. The only obstacle so far was her alignment. Light was uncommon, and so there were few teachers available.

Still. She'd mastered a cantrip already, and from there planned on expanding. In a month or so she'd hopefully be ready for first level spells. That was about the average. Only... she didn't want that.

Ambition wasn't an emotion usually associated with Light. In fact, it was one of those strange edge-case 'emotions' that were widely not considered an emotion at all. She wasn't sure that was accurate, though. But perhaps she was too new to magic to really cast judgement.

No. She'd have a first level spell mastered before the end of the month. Her own innate magic was a third level spell. That was a good starting point.

If she was to impress the world, she needed more than just a rare form of magic.

If she was to impose herself as a powerful member of her family, she'd need more than just rapid growth and the potential to be dangerous. Her own father was an E-ranker only, and that was enough for him. If he wanted violence done, he'd ask one of his B-ranker guards.

Francisca needed... dammit, she wasn't sure. Her life had been on a steady, polite course before this month began. She was going to be a good, clean cog in the machine.

She could still be that.

But Deadline wasn't. That woman did her own thing, acted with indifference to the rules, to how things were done. A rebel in a way that Francisca herself could never be. And Deadline was driven.

She wanted to be like that too. She wanted to be closer to Deadline, in character and in perso--

She jumped as the door buzzer went off and moved towards the entrance and the screen built into the wall next to it. She saw a black-haired figure standing outside, thumb pressing onto the button by the door.

Fransica stared. Deadline had come unmasked.

It was... very strange. Her mental image of the woman always featured that mask, the one that twisted her voice and made it hollow, more dangerous, that made her more imposing.

Somehow, seeing that she was without was a massive disappointment.

Was Deadline less... well, not to put too fine a point to it, but was Deadline less cool

than she'd built her up to be in her mind?

She opened the door.

"Miss Deadline," she began, easily slipping into the role of host. "It's good to... to, ah. To see you."

Deadline was standing there, weight on one leg, hip cocked, a sleek black motorcycle helmet under one arm. She was wearing a leather coat, tight, with armoured pads on the arms and elbows, and a cinched waist that suggested a lot of curve. Black pants, tucked into heavy boots with little studs on them.

Her gaze snapped up with Deadline's unmasked face. She was pretty. Lips drawn into a thin line, sharp cheekbones, the same piercing eyes but somehow more fitting in a face that was uncovered. "Hey," Deadline said.

Oh. Oh no, Deadline was cooler out of costume.

"Did you have a safe ride over?" she asked, her mouth automatically going for a safe question.

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry for being late, Fran. It's not something I'm accustomed to," Deadline said. The nickname... ah, right. No one called her that except for Deadline, and yet Franscisca couldn't find it in herself to complain. "I did stop by to grab you a housewarming present."

"Oh? You shouldn't have. But please, come in." She stepped back, gesturing into her home. Deadline did so, bending down to undo her boots with a quick tug at the latches on them before stepping out. She pulled something from her helmet.

"I hope you like whiskey," Deadline said.

Francisca couldn't say that she was a fan, but she couldn't say that she'd tried very much either. "Why thank you," she said as she took the bottle. It seemed like decent quality, at least. An amber liquid, with a small wax seal over the top. The label read 'C-grade materials only' and she could sense a faint stirring of magic in the drink.

It was a nice gimmick. A lot of foods, of course, were made from portal-cultivated materials. Most of her own growth came from that, in fact.

"Pop it open! It's best on the rocks, and best early, before the magic has time to wear off," Deadline said. She smiled, and Franscisca found her eyes straying to the woman's lips. She smiled with one side of her mouth more than the other. A crooked smirk more than anything.

"I suppose. I was going to offer you some wine, but this seems suitable. Ah, speaking of food and drink, I ordered a meal for both of us. Take-out, I'm afraid. My culinary skills leave much to be desired. Do you cook?"

"I can manage," Deadline said. She didn't seem... impressed?

Was she upset by Francisca's lack of skill, or just bored with the topic. "Come! There's the couch and if you wish we can sit in the dining room."

Deadline did neither. She scanned the apartment at a glance, then pulled a stool in the kitchen island while Fransica worked to open the bottle. The wax seal was quite stuck... glancing up, she met Deadline's eye for just a moment before summoning her only true spell.

A thin beam of light appeared in her hand, a bar which she grasped onto, with a golden edge. She sliced it along the top of the bottle, lopping it off and leaving the rim of the glass smoking.

"Heh," Deadline said as Francisca unsummoned the weapon. "So, that's your innate magic?"

"It is," she confirmed.

"Well... maybe some ice? Warm whiskey always tastes a little too bitter."

"Of course," she said. Somehow, she was pleased at the lax reaction. "Have you made a study of magic yourself?"

Deadline leaned forwards, onto her elbows so that her coat creaked. "A little. I've been working on it as I go. I've only ascended to D-rank recently."

"Ah, still mastering cantrips?"

"A few of those, yes. I picked up a first level spell last week. Shadow Bolt. It's not bad. The timing with it is everything. And I've been working on something a little more challenging now that I've grown accustomed to that much."

Already?

At least this confirmed that Deadline really was a Void or Dark mage. The magic of boredom and loathing. How strangely fitting.

They talked about magic, about the difficulty of carving spells from the core, and Deadline even spoke about a woman she'd met and fought next to recently who seemed to cast entirely without carved spells.

Francisca felt a twinge on hearing her talk about that, about fighting shoulder to shoulder with someone else. She pushed past it as she poured them both a drink.

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They clinked tumblers together and she took a sip. The taste of alcohol was strong, but so was the smokey flavor. She didn't mind it. Her attention rose to Deadline, who licked her lips dry. "Ah, not bad," Deadline said.

"Yes," Francisca agreed. "Ah, but should we move onto business?"

Deadline frowned, almost as if considering it. "I suppose so," she said. "The couch?"

She agreed and then moved over to the couches. She had two, set next to each other with an end table between them, both angled to look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the fireplace built into the wall that she'd never once lit.

She sat. Deadline did not, and instead moved over to the window, whiskey glass in hand.

"The people kidnapping you don't work for your family," Deadline said. "Or a rival corp." she went on to explain a harrowing tale of working against a clairvoyant, sneaking over, and infiltrating a gang hideout while they were in the process of breaking their allies out of prison. She didn't explain how she managed such a feat, however, but Fransica knew better than to doubt her.

If anyone could, it was Deadline.

"So... I was what, a target of convenience?" she asked.

"Afraid so," Deadline said. She leaned back, swirling her drink in her tumbler. "Sorry. Just how it works out. But maybe it wasn't all bad?"

"And how do you figure that?" she asked. Her tone was a little acerbic, she knew, but her gorge felt like it had been splashed with acid and her stomach was twisting into a knot.

Deadline smiled, sadly, this time. "Well, we met, didn't we? I'm still willing to help you. If you think your family will still push... then that's that. I'll push back with you."

"Oh," she replied. She looked down to her cup, then away. "That's kind of you."

"Well, it's not just kind. It's business as well."

That was something Fransisca could understand a little better. Gentleness of that sort, kindness for kindness sake, it existed, she knew, but rarely around her. People were kind because she represented other people who could ruin them, or because they wanted something from her. This being business was better, more transactional. It helped her put her feelings into a neat, tidy box.

"And what would you expect from this?"

Deadline turned away from the window and came to sit down... on the same couch as her. She sat crooked, her knee almost touching Francisca's leg. "The city is going to suffer from a massive breach in about eight months. No, I can't tell you how I know. And before your imagination runs wild, I'm not a pre-cog."

Francisca hadn't yet imagined that, but now that Deadline mentioned it... it would explain a few minor things. "What kind of breach?"

"Several B-rank portals. A cascade event which might lead to worse. It's going to be an orchestrated attack on Fortress ENE. And it won't be carried out by an outside government. This is something someone, or several someone's, are going to do in order to gain more power." Deadline was being serious. Deadly serious. "I need your help. It's not why I saved you from those kidnappers, or helped you afterwards, but... well, I'd like to cash in whatever favors you think you may owe me and burn any goodwill I have."

Her heart was thundering in her chest. "You want me to assist you, how, exactly?"

"Well, I happen to live here, and I'm rather fond of that. Both the living and the here," Deadline said. "So I want to prevent the disaster. Ideally before it begins. If not, then I want to prepare the city for it and bring those responsible to justice. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect you to jump onto this so easily. There's some value in it for you as well."

"Go on," she said, but her mind was racing. Deadline had always seemed somewhat heroic to her. Morally good. A saviour, certainly. But she wasn't one for fairy tales and stories about masked heroes. The real world wasn't like that.

And yet here Deadline was, genuinely telling her about a conspiracy to destroy a city.

"The people responsible for the breach--and no, I don't know who it is, exactly--have to have good connections. I suspect that there might be more than one corporation involved. If we stop it before it occurs, or blow the whole situation up, then I'd like to think that you're smart enough to find a way to profit from that."

Redline certainly could. Her father's wealth had sometimes grown substantially without him taking any actions while adversaries 'shot themselves in the foot,' as he'd once put it.

When he took some of his rare time off to talk to her about business, he said that letting his competition jump onto their own swords was the best tactic in business.

If she had names and companies and could prove that they were behind something like a massive breach... yes, that ought to count.

"I see," she said. "Tell me everything you know."

Deadline turned, meeting her eyes and keeping contact until she had no choice but to look back. "Tell me that you'll help. Or at least consider it."

"I... I will," she said. She pushed aside thoughts of profits and motives for a moment. This woman wanted her to help, and... well, if anything, she could admit to herself that she was a little smitten with the idea of her. It was maybe clouding her judgement.

And so Deadline talked. What she had wasn't much, but it was a start. She wanted to know how she knew what she did, but Deadline kept that to herself.

Then it was time to eat. The meal was warmed up in that rarely used oven, filling her home with the uncommon scent of freshly cooked food. She showed Deadline around. They talked about art, about music.

Deadline insisted that she play the piano in the corner, at least a little. She admitted to playing the guitar herself... because of course she did.

When Deadline wasn't looking, Francisca chewed on her lower lip and ran through a few mental exercises. She wouldn't break her composure now and do something as plebian as blush... but her body wanted to. And more.

The food, of course, was delicious. It ought to be, for the price she paid. Sitting across from Deadline, hearing her make pleased noises in between conversation about favourite bands and musicians and fashion and old movies and even a long rant she'd been saving up about her sibling's moves in the market that Deadline listened to with rapt attention...

Then Deadline let out a sigh, touching her stomach through her jacket. "I'm sorry. This isn't appropriate."

"Pardon?" she asked.

"The coat," she said.

"Oh. I'd forgotten to even ask. Did you want to put it aside?"

Deadline shook her head, then unzipped it. "I'm afraid that I kept it on because I'm casual beneath."

Casual? She wondered what that meant until Deadline unzipped the jacket fully and... oh my, she was wearing a thin camisole and a sports bra and little else. Appropriate for a club, perhaps... a very raunchy club.

"Ah, um, yes, that's fine," she said. Damn, the blush got away from her.

She turned the conversation to bikes, which Deadline admitted to not knowing all too well except for her own, though she seemed quite fond of it. She offered her a ride on it, into the night, even, to feel the cool city air.

She refused, but she wanted to. The press of Deadline in front of her, the hum of a machine.... She swallowed.

And then noticed that it had gotten quite very late.

"You should stay the night," she said, suddenly. "It's dark. The roads aren't always safe. And you can rest on the couch, if you want. I'm afraid I converted both guest rooms to other things. Or... I can give you my bed and take the couch?"

"No... I mean... sure. I'll stay the night, if you'll have me. But keep your bed. I've slept on worse than a couch before. It's good enough for me. Though... I should warn you, I usually sleep naked."

"Ah."

Her mind was buzzing, and she wasn't sure if it was the whiskey, or the wine they'd had after, or just Deadline being so present, but it wasn't an unpleasant sort of buzz.

***