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wc:2870
Nothing exciting ever happened in that dull division. In the academy, everybody talked about the Twelfth like it was some kind of Mecca for poised assassins. All that it had turned out to be was a bunch of boring shinigami walking around like they were all dead or something. Everything anybody ever said seemed like a warning.
“Oh you took that mission? Make sure you do your homework on the target.”
Back in Rukongai he might have had a few problems of his own to deal with that weren’t worth sticking around for, but at least there was more excitement around. Not to mention the number of pockets he could pick without fear of repercussion. Out of the corner of his light hazel eyes he spotted the smallest evidence of a kan purse hanging out of a pocket.
Nevermind the fact that it belonged to a bearded assassin he’d never met before, nor the fact that trying to steal in the middle of a division composed of killers. Only thoughtless greed pushed the tall rookie’s hand towards his target’s supposedly-exposed pocket.
At nearly the same moment the stranger’s hand touched the pouch, his wrist was gripped tightly and twisted back. Igasho remained facing forward, though his head turned back slightly, as he forcibly yanked the young man forward and to the ground.
Leveraging his wrenched wrist, the officer turned the arm at an agonizing angle and gently placed his bare foot against Amon’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Igasho looked at the tan, writhing figure with an unchanged expression.
“Did you know,” he said nonchalantly, “it’s said that, in Hammurabi’s Code, if a thief was caught stealing, the hand used to steal would be cut off? In reality, though, that isn’t entirely true.”
The bearded, soft-spoken man twisted a little more, ensuring a little more pain was felt.
“What the law really said was that any person caught stealing would pay with their life. Interesting, isn’t it? Tell me, what do you think about that law, stranger?”
“GAAHH!”
Usually the standard passerby wasn’t as deft as this guy apparently was, but on the other hand Amon had passed from Rukongai to the Gotei. Things were going to be different even IF he hadn’t expected them to be this different. Another cry of pain shot out of his throat when his arm was twisted that extra degree. In his purview that little addition was totally unnecessary.
“That’s a load of shit, man,” he fruitlessly struggled to free his arm, “you’re not Hammurabi, and this isn’t fucking Babylon!” In such a desperate situation all he could muster were curses and an attempt at logic.
“I’m not a thief, either. I’m an assassin. I just saw an opportunity and I took advantage! You can appreciate that, right?” All of his confidence fell away at the end of his statement. Being dismembered or killed hadn’t been a part of the game plan when he’d decided it was time to steal.
“I can appreciate that the only way to show you the err of your choice within this division is to let you pay with your life....but,” he said passively, “then you’d only learn the lesson once.
“A better idea, I think, would be to just take the hand...perhaps there was something to the exaggerated legend.”
Igasho drew his blade slowly, “Unless you can give me a good enough reason, otherwise.”
“Ahh-uh-ahh-uhh,” Amon stammered desperately. Seeing his reflection in the blade made the possibility more real with each passing second. A plethora of excuses that ran the gamut from “because please don’t” to “I’ll (try to) slit your throat” passed through his mind. There had to be a way out, he decided.
“Because...because I’m right-handed! Ahh, shit,” he immediately gave up on that avenue of escape, “I told you, I’m an assassin! I won’t be any good without both hands! I’m more...valuable! Yeah! Valuable with both hands. You cut one off and it’s like breaking a good dagger on purpose!
“Give me a chance and I can prove I’m worth more to you with both graspers,” he pleaded. Out of anxious anticipation his bound arm tensed up, almost in preparation of being removed from its place. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t stop himself from visualizing his limb being cut in two by the bearded officer’s sword.
“Very well,” he said releasing the man’s hand. “That’s fair enough. Kill you or cut off your hand - I lose a possible asset. What’s your name?”
A sigh of relief exited Amon’s mouth as he retracted his arm. Being on his feet with both arms still attached was a nice feeling. Out of instinct he patted himself down to make sure that everything was still there, which was a behavior that he’d picked up perhaps because he himself would have stolen from a hapless idiot pinned to the ground, so why not anybody else?
“Amon,” the black-haired shinigami finally answered, “my name’s Amon.” Satisfied that everything was where it was supposed to be he turned his attention back to Igasho. With the perceived danger gone, the anxiety had quickly left his posture.
“And are you too badass for a name or d’you prefer King Hammurabi?” Something about his bearded counterpart was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it.
He spoke simply and with a remark that might have been humorous but his countenance hardly reflected it.
“‘King’ is fine for now.”
The brawny man turned away from the disheveled recruit, commanding him to follow in suit.
“Come with me.”
The bearded stoic moved across the division grounds, letting his hand casually drape across the hilt of his blade. Though it was hardly a looming threat, the hand was exactly where it needed to be as an assassin. His bare feet gently stepped across the grass and his tranquil energy echoed with an air of composure and reservation.
“There,” Igasho nodded to a building in the distance, “is the main hall. The bounties offices and officer’s quarters are located there. As you can tell by the chains on the door, it is closed for now.” He stopped, turning to face the man, “Do you know why?”
The sage killer looked back to the building, answering his own rhetorical question.
“Because it’s in total disarray, inside...ravaged by a gruesome fight. Where I recently ended the most feared leader of this division.”
Though it wasn’t entirely the truth as the man might believe, it was an echo of the truth. A remanence of a ghastly encounter that left a world of troubling questions for the officer to answer...in time.
At first Amon was unsure of his comrade’s meaning. From his understanding the last “leader” of the Twelfth had only been such as a temporary measure, and had been killed far away from the Gotei. History wasn’t his strong suit but by his reckoning there was only one person that could fit that description. It seemed as though the mystery person’s name was just on the tip of his tongue.
“That’s fucked up,” the rookie approached the door slowly, “but what does ‘most feared’ even mean? What’d you do? Kill Louhi Kaiho?” For a few seconds he laughed at his own sentiment. Just then he hadn’t made the connection between what he’d said and what he’d been asked. Any time he’d asked about the Twelfth most people would gush on the glory days. All people knew how to say was how great things were for the 12th back when Louhi was in charge, but he didn’t really believe in looking back at the past with rose-tinted glasses.
The realization washed over him like a ton of bricks. In one fell swoop he stumbled back just clumsily enough to nearly trip over his own feet in the process.
“Oh,” he stated the obvious, “oh, fuck me. Y-you didn’t, I mean you did. How?”
“How?” he asked, turning to look at the man as if the answer needed no question. His soft eyes, though, carried with them an image of the gravity of the situation and the lack of willingness to divulge much in the matter. “The same way you kill anyone - or anything - else...almost.”
Turning back again and continuing to walk, the officer placed his hands behind his back, carrying himself with a calm composure. His bare feet softly tread the lush, green grass, hardly reflective of the large frame they supported. Though the burly warrior was broad-framed killer, his voice, his mannerisms and his countenance were that of a peaceful, tranquil man.
Letting the answer go without detail, the stoic continued the impromptu tour and asked, “Why are you here, Amon?”
More than a few mysteries surrounded the Twelfth but right at that moment Amon was more concerned with the mysteries surrounding his guide. Just how he could have killed Louhi Kaihou or why were both an enigma.
It seemed that what most assassins shared in common was a penchant for shrouding the truth. Doing anything that even resembled answering Igasho’s question with the truth was off the table.
“Why is anybody here? To learn how to be an elite killer and get paid for it,” he brushed off the question with a lie as casually as one would take a breath.
Igasho did not look back as he responded but, instead, kept his eyes fixed on the building they approached next.
“Perhaps that is why you are here but that is not why any of us are here, Amon. Those of us that remain do not simply regard this as a job. Your own motivations, however, are just that - your own. It makes no difference to me why you are here, so long as you abide by our rules...”
He turned slightly to glance back at the man.
“...Without question.”
Stepping a few meters away from the next building, Igasho stopped and gave a simple explanation.
“This is where all our administrative staff is working, temporarily, and this is where you will really need to pay attention.”
Delaying an explanation, the brawny man pushed the doors open and walked in, beckoning the novice to follow.
Locked in curious silence, Amon followed Igasho in. For every shinigami he saw his attention was briefly stolen. A hanging purse-string here, the indentation of a wallet there - all screamed for his hands in which they belonged.
Ignoring the fact that he was being guided by a high-ranking officer, what really stopped him was his own catastrophic failure. Lifting wallets in the Seireitei wouldn’t do him any good, he decided. If anything he’d need to settle for learning how to kill.
The brawny killer became more intrigued by the man, with each step. He wanted to think he knew what Amon was thinking - how he was feeling - but he knew it was only a guess. He couldn’t have everyone under his thumb...but then again, he was a natural at figuring those things out very quickly.
“Here,” he said, pointing to an upcoming door, “is the temporary office of Yaname - a name you’ll come to remember. Right now, she’s behind that door with another member of the Twelfth Division. In a few minutes, the person in there with Yaname is going to leave and another member of the division is going to go in there. That’s going to to happen over and over, all day, until every last member of the division has met with her.
“What are they doing, you might ask? Very simply, they letting her know they are still here. Why are they letting her know they’re here? Because anyone who doesn’t is considered rogue.”
The assassin’s eyes fell directly to Amon, almost as if bearing down on him.
“It is your responsibility to meet with her, every day that you are not on a mission, to let her know you are here. Very simple, not too demanding. Just once a day.”
Whether or not the name “Yaname” was meant to have an impact was a mystery. All that Amon could see was the worn wood of an old door. Having to endure a mandatory roll call every single day was the opposite of both suave and cool, he decided.
Any doubt that the ritual held meaning, however, was melted away when he made the mistake of making eye contact with Igasho once again. Such gravity sat in them that he immediately looked away. To recover he turned to take another look at the rest of the office.
“Our bounties office is closed, our officers’ quarters cordoned off,” he had to clear his throat, “and everybody has to sign in with the receptionist every single day,” he recounted what he’d been shown. In terms of what had attracted him to those halls in the first place, he’d seen remarkably little. When it came to a topic that actually mattered to him his stance firmed up.
“If everybody is here trying to fix the place up, or prove they aren’t deserters,” he turned to face Igasho again, “who’s out actually getting shit done?”
“Me,” Igasho said, simply.
“...And if you do as requested, you will be, soon enough.”
The officer pulled the coin purse from his kosode, hopping it within his hand a couple times as he continued.
“Not to mention, also, that the Twelfth’s pay scales have been readjusted. Your obedience - and your risk - are well compensated. How does that sound to you?”
If Amon had been thinking about anything else he wouldn’t have been able to prove it. There was the need to have a job, or direction, or structure, and then there was payment. A person could spend all day spouting hot air, but money talked. As though he were hypnotized his entire world of focus fell on the coin purse he had tried to steal just minutes ago.
“I think,” he tried to tear his eyes away from the pouch. Each infinitesimal moment during which the thief-turned-assassin curved his eyeline away brought with it an interminable void of existential pain. For he knew, deep in his heart, that when he looked away from an opportunity it would vanish as quickly as it showed up. By the time he had actually made eye-contact with Igasho again he had gone through all five stages of grief.
“We may have a misunderstanding,” he said without letting a beat pass, “if you pay me, there’s no such thing as risk.”
Igasho cracked a smile.
“Good,” he said, dropping the purse into Amon’s hands, “then we have an understanding. Consider this an investment...or good faith, if you will. I trust I won’t see or hear any more about your exploration of other’s pockets?”
Even though the coin purse contained everything for which Amon had wished, he regarded it suspiciously when it fell into his hands. It was one thing to steal and thereby earn somebody else’s money, but a handout was an entirely different matter.
“Where I come from, nothing is free. If you’re paying to put these people, ehm,” he quickly remembered the term that was thrown around in his former home, “under my protection, then their wallets will never know fear again.” Proud of himself, Amon cracked the slightest of devilish grins that he could. Who knew that Shinigami were so easy to fleece?
“Great,” Igasho said with an equally devious smile, “then consider this a down-payment.”
Igasho leaned over, slightly, staring directly into Amon’s eyes as he spoke.
“Listen to me very carefully, Amon. We have some new joining us in the Twelfth. A former member of the Keigun. I’d like for you to pay her a visit...so to say.”
Once again Igasho’s intense stare was enough to turn Amon’s head away. However, they were so close that there was little room for him to look elsewhere. Anxiety tried to take over but he focused all his mental might on not letting it show too much.
“K-keigun,” he recognized the word for its association with cold-blooded killers, “sure, I’ll meet with the newbie. Your wish is my command, my King,” he tried to cover his anxiety with dripping sarcasm.
“No need. All I need you to do is follow her. Don’t let her see you.t at first, anyways.” Igasho started to walk away, leaving the young man where he stood.
“Just keep an eye on her and report back to me at the end of each day. If and when she catches on to you, you would be best advised to not be honest about your intentions. All she needs to know is that you are curious about the newest member of our team and you are looking forward to working with her.”
Igasho turned his back on the man and walked away, only looking slightly back to say, “Goodbye Amon. Do not disappoint me.”
wc:2870
Nothing exciting ever happened in that dull division. In the academy, everybody talked about the Twelfth like it was some kind of Mecca for poised assassins. All that it had turned out to be was a bunch of boring shinigami walking around like they were all dead or something. Everything anybody ever said seemed like a warning.
“Oh you took that mission? Make sure you do your homework on the target.”
“Yeah, don’t want another one of those messes.”
That being a cool, calculating knife-in-the-dark assassin involved any kind of homework came as a disgusting shock. Nobody cool ever did “homework” or worried about messes. Even though it had only been a month since he’d joined the Twelfth division, Amon was already having second thoughts.Back in Rukongai he might have had a few problems of his own to deal with that weren’t worth sticking around for, but at least there was more excitement around. Not to mention the number of pockets he could pick without fear of repercussion. Out of the corner of his light hazel eyes he spotted the smallest evidence of a kan purse hanging out of a pocket.
Nevermind the fact that it belonged to a bearded assassin he’d never met before, nor the fact that trying to steal in the middle of a division composed of killers. Only thoughtless greed pushed the tall rookie’s hand towards his target’s supposedly-exposed pocket.
At nearly the same moment the stranger’s hand touched the pouch, his wrist was gripped tightly and twisted back. Igasho remained facing forward, though his head turned back slightly, as he forcibly yanked the young man forward and to the ground.
Leveraging his wrenched wrist, the officer turned the arm at an agonizing angle and gently placed his bare foot against Amon’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Igasho looked at the tan, writhing figure with an unchanged expression.
“Did you know,” he said nonchalantly, “it’s said that, in Hammurabi’s Code, if a thief was caught stealing, the hand used to steal would be cut off? In reality, though, that isn’t entirely true.”
The bearded, soft-spoken man twisted a little more, ensuring a little more pain was felt.
“What the law really said was that any person caught stealing would pay with their life. Interesting, isn’t it? Tell me, what do you think about that law, stranger?”
“GAAHH!”
Usually the standard passerby wasn’t as deft as this guy apparently was, but on the other hand Amon had passed from Rukongai to the Gotei. Things were going to be different even IF he hadn’t expected them to be this different. Another cry of pain shot out of his throat when his arm was twisted that extra degree. In his purview that little addition was totally unnecessary.
“That’s a load of shit, man,” he fruitlessly struggled to free his arm, “you’re not Hammurabi, and this isn’t fucking Babylon!” In such a desperate situation all he could muster were curses and an attempt at logic.
“I’m not a thief, either. I’m an assassin. I just saw an opportunity and I took advantage! You can appreciate that, right?” All of his confidence fell away at the end of his statement. Being dismembered or killed hadn’t been a part of the game plan when he’d decided it was time to steal.
“I can appreciate that the only way to show you the err of your choice within this division is to let you pay with your life....but,” he said passively, “then you’d only learn the lesson once.
“A better idea, I think, would be to just take the hand...perhaps there was something to the exaggerated legend.”
Igasho drew his blade slowly, “Unless you can give me a good enough reason, otherwise.”
“Ahh-uh-ahh-uhh,” Amon stammered desperately. Seeing his reflection in the blade made the possibility more real with each passing second. A plethora of excuses that ran the gamut from “because please don’t” to “I’ll (try to) slit your throat” passed through his mind. There had to be a way out, he decided.
“Because...because I’m right-handed! Ahh, shit,” he immediately gave up on that avenue of escape, “I told you, I’m an assassin! I won’t be any good without both hands! I’m more...valuable! Yeah! Valuable with both hands. You cut one off and it’s like breaking a good dagger on purpose!
“Give me a chance and I can prove I’m worth more to you with both graspers,” he pleaded. Out of anxious anticipation his bound arm tensed up, almost in preparation of being removed from its place. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t stop himself from visualizing his limb being cut in two by the bearded officer’s sword.
“Very well,” he said releasing the man’s hand. “That’s fair enough. Kill you or cut off your hand - I lose a possible asset. What’s your name?”
A sigh of relief exited Amon’s mouth as he retracted his arm. Being on his feet with both arms still attached was a nice feeling. Out of instinct he patted himself down to make sure that everything was still there, which was a behavior that he’d picked up perhaps because he himself would have stolen from a hapless idiot pinned to the ground, so why not anybody else?
“Amon,” the black-haired shinigami finally answered, “my name’s Amon.” Satisfied that everything was where it was supposed to be he turned his attention back to Igasho. With the perceived danger gone, the anxiety had quickly left his posture.
“And are you too badass for a name or d’you prefer King Hammurabi?” Something about his bearded counterpart was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it.
He spoke simply and with a remark that might have been humorous but his countenance hardly reflected it.
“‘King’ is fine for now.”
The brawny man turned away from the disheveled recruit, commanding him to follow in suit.
“Come with me.”
The bearded stoic moved across the division grounds, letting his hand casually drape across the hilt of his blade. Though it was hardly a looming threat, the hand was exactly where it needed to be as an assassin. His bare feet gently stepped across the grass and his tranquil energy echoed with an air of composure and reservation.
“There,” Igasho nodded to a building in the distance, “is the main hall. The bounties offices and officer’s quarters are located there. As you can tell by the chains on the door, it is closed for now.” He stopped, turning to face the man, “Do you know why?”
The sage killer looked back to the building, answering his own rhetorical question.
“Because it’s in total disarray, inside...ravaged by a gruesome fight. Where I recently ended the most feared leader of this division.”
Though it wasn’t entirely the truth as the man might believe, it was an echo of the truth. A remanence of a ghastly encounter that left a world of troubling questions for the officer to answer...in time.
At first Amon was unsure of his comrade’s meaning. From his understanding the last “leader” of the Twelfth had only been such as a temporary measure, and had been killed far away from the Gotei. History wasn’t his strong suit but by his reckoning there was only one person that could fit that description. It seemed as though the mystery person’s name was just on the tip of his tongue.
“That’s fucked up,” the rookie approached the door slowly, “but what does ‘most feared’ even mean? What’d you do? Kill Louhi Kaiho?” For a few seconds he laughed at his own sentiment. Just then he hadn’t made the connection between what he’d said and what he’d been asked. Any time he’d asked about the Twelfth most people would gush on the glory days. All people knew how to say was how great things were for the 12th back when Louhi was in charge, but he didn’t really believe in looking back at the past with rose-tinted glasses.
The realization washed over him like a ton of bricks. In one fell swoop he stumbled back just clumsily enough to nearly trip over his own feet in the process.
“Oh,” he stated the obvious, “oh, fuck me. Y-you didn’t, I mean you did. How?”
“How?” he asked, turning to look at the man as if the answer needed no question. His soft eyes, though, carried with them an image of the gravity of the situation and the lack of willingness to divulge much in the matter. “The same way you kill anyone - or anything - else...almost.”
Turning back again and continuing to walk, the officer placed his hands behind his back, carrying himself with a calm composure. His bare feet softly tread the lush, green grass, hardly reflective of the large frame they supported. Though the burly warrior was broad-framed killer, his voice, his mannerisms and his countenance were that of a peaceful, tranquil man.
Letting the answer go without detail, the stoic continued the impromptu tour and asked, “Why are you here, Amon?”
More than a few mysteries surrounded the Twelfth but right at that moment Amon was more concerned with the mysteries surrounding his guide. Just how he could have killed Louhi Kaihou or why were both an enigma.
It seemed that what most assassins shared in common was a penchant for shrouding the truth. Doing anything that even resembled answering Igasho’s question with the truth was off the table.
“Why is anybody here? To learn how to be an elite killer and get paid for it,” he brushed off the question with a lie as casually as one would take a breath.
Igasho did not look back as he responded but, instead, kept his eyes fixed on the building they approached next.
“Perhaps that is why you are here but that is not why any of us are here, Amon. Those of us that remain do not simply regard this as a job. Your own motivations, however, are just that - your own. It makes no difference to me why you are here, so long as you abide by our rules...”
He turned slightly to glance back at the man.
“...Without question.”
Stepping a few meters away from the next building, Igasho stopped and gave a simple explanation.
“This is where all our administrative staff is working, temporarily, and this is where you will really need to pay attention.”
Delaying an explanation, the brawny man pushed the doors open and walked in, beckoning the novice to follow.
Locked in curious silence, Amon followed Igasho in. For every shinigami he saw his attention was briefly stolen. A hanging purse-string here, the indentation of a wallet there - all screamed for his hands in which they belonged.
Ignoring the fact that he was being guided by a high-ranking officer, what really stopped him was his own catastrophic failure. Lifting wallets in the Seireitei wouldn’t do him any good, he decided. If anything he’d need to settle for learning how to kill.
The brawny killer became more intrigued by the man, with each step. He wanted to think he knew what Amon was thinking - how he was feeling - but he knew it was only a guess. He couldn’t have everyone under his thumb...but then again, he was a natural at figuring those things out very quickly.
“Here,” he said, pointing to an upcoming door, “is the temporary office of Yaname - a name you’ll come to remember. Right now, she’s behind that door with another member of the Twelfth Division. In a few minutes, the person in there with Yaname is going to leave and another member of the division is going to go in there. That’s going to to happen over and over, all day, until every last member of the division has met with her.
“What are they doing, you might ask? Very simply, they letting her know they are still here. Why are they letting her know they’re here? Because anyone who doesn’t is considered rogue.”
The assassin’s eyes fell directly to Amon, almost as if bearing down on him.
“It is your responsibility to meet with her, every day that you are not on a mission, to let her know you are here. Very simple, not too demanding. Just once a day.”
Whether or not the name “Yaname” was meant to have an impact was a mystery. All that Amon could see was the worn wood of an old door. Having to endure a mandatory roll call every single day was the opposite of both suave and cool, he decided.
Any doubt that the ritual held meaning, however, was melted away when he made the mistake of making eye contact with Igasho once again. Such gravity sat in them that he immediately looked away. To recover he turned to take another look at the rest of the office.
“Our bounties office is closed, our officers’ quarters cordoned off,” he had to clear his throat, “and everybody has to sign in with the receptionist every single day,” he recounted what he’d been shown. In terms of what had attracted him to those halls in the first place, he’d seen remarkably little. When it came to a topic that actually mattered to him his stance firmed up.
“If everybody is here trying to fix the place up, or prove they aren’t deserters,” he turned to face Igasho again, “who’s out actually getting shit done?”
“Me,” Igasho said, simply.
“...And if you do as requested, you will be, soon enough.”
The officer pulled the coin purse from his kosode, hopping it within his hand a couple times as he continued.
“Not to mention, also, that the Twelfth’s pay scales have been readjusted. Your obedience - and your risk - are well compensated. How does that sound to you?”
If Amon had been thinking about anything else he wouldn’t have been able to prove it. There was the need to have a job, or direction, or structure, and then there was payment. A person could spend all day spouting hot air, but money talked. As though he were hypnotized his entire world of focus fell on the coin purse he had tried to steal just minutes ago.
“I think,” he tried to tear his eyes away from the pouch. Each infinitesimal moment during which the thief-turned-assassin curved his eyeline away brought with it an interminable void of existential pain. For he knew, deep in his heart, that when he looked away from an opportunity it would vanish as quickly as it showed up. By the time he had actually made eye-contact with Igasho again he had gone through all five stages of grief.
“We may have a misunderstanding,” he said without letting a beat pass, “if you pay me, there’s no such thing as risk.”
Igasho cracked a smile.
“Good,” he said, dropping the purse into Amon’s hands, “then we have an understanding. Consider this an investment...or good faith, if you will. I trust I won’t see or hear any more about your exploration of other’s pockets?”
Even though the coin purse contained everything for which Amon had wished, he regarded it suspiciously when it fell into his hands. It was one thing to steal and thereby earn somebody else’s money, but a handout was an entirely different matter.
“Where I come from, nothing is free. If you’re paying to put these people, ehm,” he quickly remembered the term that was thrown around in his former home, “under my protection, then their wallets will never know fear again.” Proud of himself, Amon cracked the slightest of devilish grins that he could. Who knew that Shinigami were so easy to fleece?
“Great,” Igasho said with an equally devious smile, “then consider this a down-payment.”
Igasho leaned over, slightly, staring directly into Amon’s eyes as he spoke.
“Listen to me very carefully, Amon. We have some new joining us in the Twelfth. A former member of the Keigun. I’d like for you to pay her a visit...so to say.”
Once again Igasho’s intense stare was enough to turn Amon’s head away. However, they were so close that there was little room for him to look elsewhere. Anxiety tried to take over but he focused all his mental might on not letting it show too much.
“K-keigun,” he recognized the word for its association with cold-blooded killers, “sure, I’ll meet with the newbie. Your wish is my command, my King,” he tried to cover his anxiety with dripping sarcasm.
“No need. All I need you to do is follow her. Don’t let her see you.t at first, anyways.” Igasho started to walk away, leaving the young man where he stood.
“Just keep an eye on her and report back to me at the end of each day. If and when she catches on to you, you would be best advised to not be honest about your intentions. All she needs to know is that you are curious about the newest member of our team and you are looking forward to working with her.”
Igasho turned his back on the man and walked away, only looking slightly back to say, “Goodbye Amon. Do not disappoint me.”