A Cat Assassin Isn't Exactly Cold

A Cat Assassin Isn't Exactly Cold

Author: Beyond the Boundary

Synopsis:

An assassin registered in Columbia, currently working part-time in Rhodes Island's HR department under the codename No.77, Nana was preparing her tools before a mission.

WA2000 Sniper Rifle—long barrel, compact overall length, easily stowed in an inconspicuous carrying case. Custom .300 etched rounds combined with Originium Arts could send a target, their armor, and their cover on their way together.

M1911 Custom Model—a grip shaped to fit a girl's hand, .45 etched rounds, a standard seven-round magazine... Used with concealed thigh and underarm holsters. Be mindful of the all-metal model's weight; don't let the rig slide down from the close-fitting bodysuit.

Nylon cord—Nana's signature weapon... Replacing it with a paracord bracelet made it perfectly reasonable to carry around.

Then, what else did she need?

[Heading out? Did you bring everything... Don't wait until you need something and realize it isn't nearby, then start looking everywhere.]

Nana looked at the translucent lady before her, then past the phantom toward the door.

"Rosemary?"

The little white cat, fluffy as a cloud, twitched her ears and stood at the call.

"I'm here."

"Let's go."

Rosemary's Embrace: 001 Assassin No.77

Assassin. An ancient and complicated profession.

Those with great strength considered assassins nothing more than brutish thugs who waved blades and clubs around. To ordinary people, the trade was full of cruel, bloodthirsty villains. Only those in the business, and those who understood Columbia, knew that the rising star registered as "No.77" had created a brand-new industry standard.

Quiet, precise, neither flamboyant nor conspicuous... It sounded like the pursuit of anyone in a similar profession, but only No.77's cases were passed down as classics.

For commissions handled by Her, if not for the records kept by the client and intermediary broker, one might even assume those targets had simply been unlucky enough to suddenly die in improbable accidents.

Thus, in Columbia, where corporate capital clashed back and forth and business warfare and revenge never waited overnight, being an assassin was, aside from sounding illegal... surprisingly, a profession with excellent prospects.

So what did No.77 herself think, standing at the pinnacle of local industry legends and at the center of countless rumors?

The answer was: nothing at all... Right now, she sat on a bench beside the commercial district's pedestrian street, holding a newspaper with a focused expression like any ordinary person struggling to make a living.

Though recognizing written languages from different countries was precisely what she was worst at, and Columbia's newspapers varied wildly in difficulty depending on the quality of their publishers and contributors... none of that mattered. Normal people didn't come to a crowded plaza under the blazing sun just to read the newspaper anyway.

Then, as a whistle sounded from the speakers in a corner of the distant plaza, the girl in a white shirt, black suit, and red tie lowered the newspaper she had used both as camouflage and to pass the time while waiting for her target, just like the passersby around her whose attention had seemingly been drawn over.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Excuse me, please look over here! Yes, right here~"

The speakers came on, and intense, energetic music began blasting toward the street.

A man in a suit similarly greeted everyone by the roadside with soaring enthusiasm. Seemingly noticing her gaze, the host onstage even waved specifically at the black-haired Feline girl who had just set down her newspaper on the bench.

"We are members of the marketing department at the Loken Watertank Research Institute. We are honored to have received government approval to publicly demonstrate our research and some finished products here..."

Ignoring the enthusiastic sales pitch from her nominal colleague, the black-haired Feline first stood up, then patted the pleated skirt that matched the color of her suit.

The swaying skirt added a touch of youthful liveliness absent from professional attire, while the black stockings faintly revealing flesh tones beneath it were clearly ill-suited to the girlishness implied by her age.

Black hair, black clothing, and a black skirt did not naturally pair well with black stockings. Only flesh-toned stockings could highlight the charm of her leg lines and the maturity of her bearing amid dark clothes. Such a mistake should not have been made by a professional woman.

But paired with a pleated skirt so commonly found as part of school uniforms, everyone would merely see every incongruity about her as the immaturity of a girl newly out of school... After all, even her height of only one meter sixty was part of the persona called "Nana."

It was merely a phonetic rendering of seventy-seven into the Eastern language as "Nana," which showed just how little the person herself cared about her name.

Or rather, she had no way to care. She had no memories from before joining the organization... so naturally, she couldn't remember something like the "name" her parents should have given her.

As for the "organization"... it was the reason the girl now operated as an assassin.

[Seventy-seven, I'm glad you still remembered to turn on your communicator on time without needing another reminder from me.]

Having used the cover of the music to lower the cat ears atop her head and put on her Bluetooth earpiece, Nana heard the voice of her supporter.

She was the organization's liaison, and also Nana's "broker" in the assassination business... a woman with a gentle voice.

Following their usual routine, the woman, hidden somewhere unknown, began briefing Nana on the mission.

[I'm sorry for suddenly dragging you out of the house, but you understand. Columbia's conflicts are the sum of conflicts from all over the world.]

[As an immigrant nation, we bring together technologies, ideas, and beliefs from every part of the world... and with them, some things everyone has talked to death.]

[Kazdel's wars never cease, and Ursus's persecution is only growing worse... The rising number of infected immigrants has forced us, who never cared much about Oripathy before, to pay attention to the issue.]

[Clearly, allowing the infected to build their own districts has increased labor costs for many companies. To lower expenses, they even want to turn the infected back into "beasts" like they are in other countries.]

[The infected are patients, in the end. Here, it's a medical issue... Those above don't want it to become a social issue like it has elsewhere.]

Unobtrusively listening to her broker's pre-mission rambling, the black-haired girl maintained her disguise and watched the host's explanation onstage with interest.

"...Do you see? As everyone knows, Originium power greatly interferes with remote-control signals. But through our outstanding biological technology, we have used universal primitive Arts to solve the operating process for miniaturized Originium-powered products...

Put simply, even if you are not a specialized drone operator, and without suffering through study and exams, you can directly operate household appliances through the relay technology we developed... This means Arts are no longer the privilege of a select few. Everyone can enjoy the convenience of operating appliances from a distance, and our lives will finally enter the modern age..."

[Seventy-seven, this mission's target is a member of Loken Watertank's executive committee. Male, fifty-six, an agent here for some old Ursus noble. His style of doing things is very Ursus.]

[Because he advocates stripping the infected of their rights, he has received support from many companies seeking human experiment permits under the guise of regulations... But those people wanting cheap test subjects is one thing. This man influencing immigration in our country is another.]

[Teach him a lesson, Seventy-seven... But don't go too far. You know the limits.]

The earpiece fell silent, and No.77 applauded with the people beside her as the host finished speaking...

Loken Watertank's staff were now bringing out devices called "relay panels" for people to try, while the target's vehicle also came to a stop.

A bear-eared man who looked fairly robust and wore Ursus noble-style clothing stepped out of the car.

This fellow, who seemed utterly out of place among the crowd and carried the air of a bygone age, first looked toward the event venue under the protection of two bodyguards... Then a middle-aged man, obviously a Columbia local from the look of his suit, hurried over and lowered his head to shake hands. His hand was slapped away, and the target even pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his own hand in disgust.

Because she wasn't far away, No.77 focused and pricked up her cat ears. Their voices came through clearly.

"You're the one in charge of the promotional event? This event... you're showing it to commoners on the street?"

"There's no distinction between nobles and commoners in Columbia, Director."

"Then at least there should be an exclusive seat for me! I represent the investors here to inspect your research progress, and you're fobbing me off with a row of cheap plastic chairs from a roadside stall?"

Perhaps even the venue manager had been rendered speechless by the other's condescending attitude. No.77 pretended to inspect a "sample," then silently left the edge of the stage while the staff explained its principles to others.

Casually slipping the sample into her clothes, the girl surveyed the entire venue.

Loken Watertank's stage had been set up in one corner of the pedestrian plaza. Aside from the open square, the surroundings were filled with shops currently open for business.

Fortunately, the enormous crowd alone was enough cover. No.77 made her way to the open area formed by the vehicle and two bodyguards keeping the crowd at bay.

At a glance, the Ursus man who was the target was still criticizing the venue manager over his personal exclusive seat, using "noble etiquette" as his premise.

No.77 also examined the target's vehicle. Its back seat seemed to have been fitted with a purple velvet cover specifically to display his special status.

This man cared a great deal about such things.

"...If it's custom-made, there definitely isn't time, and there has never been such a practice, Director... Columbia has never had special seats prepared for so-called nobles."

"But I did not come here as a noble! I represent the board of directors. Are you asking the board to sit on flimsy plastic chairs while making speeches?"

Seeing that the two could probably keep arguing for some time, No.77 returned to the event site. Several staff members moving tables and chairs onstage were watching the target argue with the other man from afar with great interest. Nearby plastic chairs were piled with Arts relay panels meant for demonstration and sale.

The host, surrounded so tightly beneath the stage in the distance that no water could pass through, was explaining that "although the panels contain Originium components, they have sufficient safety measures and will not pose any danger."

Following the structure of the host's explanation, No.77 put on gloves and fiddled with the sample in her clothes. Before long, the girl sensed Originium radiation leaking from within... This seemed rather different from the "safety measures" the host had described.

At least, in the girl's understanding, any product from which dangerous contents could be taken out through such casual disassembly definitely could not be considered safe.

But No.77 wasn't a quality inspector. She only wanted to finish the mission quickly and go home.

So, after considering the target's words and the request given by her broker, the girl decided how to deal with him.

Ordinarily, given No.77's personality, someone so vain and glory-hungry needed to be humiliated in public to most effectively crush that stubborn feudal will.

No.77 could have gone through the trouble of preparing a chair just for him, sending it onto the stage, then placing the "damaged" sample beneath it and letting him experience what it felt like to sit down in his special seat and become infected.

But her broker had said not to go too far, which meant this could not become a public incident... Therefore, anything that would severely affect Loken Watertank and the investment company's stock prices was not allowed.

So No.77 set her sights on his private car.

After waiting a little longer, the target seemed to have finished arguing. He went onstage, sat on a purple plastic chair, and began talking about things no one cared about.

At that point, the bodyguards naturally followed him to the stage to stand by. No.77 took out an ID badge and pretended to hang it from her chest... Things like that, which nobody ever bothered to look at, had unexpected effects in places like this. For example, everyone assumed No.77 was a staff member at the venue.

Under the gaze of countless people, the girl swaggered over and used a master key to open the vehicle's trunk. Because it was in the stage's blind spot, the two bodyguards could not see that someone had already opened the back of their car.

With the motions of taking something from the trunk, No.77 scattered crushed Originium crystals over the target's seat, then stuffed the disassembled sample casing into the gap in the seat.

No.77 made it look as though it had fallen in after being damaged... She hoped that was how people would interpret it after the incident.

That was enough for a lesson... And the Originium crystals affected by No.77's Arts had not only changed from their original crimson color to transparent, but their radiation had become nearly undetectable.

Upon that brilliant purple seat cushion, danger sufficient to change a person's fate had been arranged.

"That'll do."

The girl replied to her broker on the other end of the earpiece, then removed her badge and gloves before disappearing into the crowd.

Rosemary's Embrace: 002 Matilda

No.77 had different faces for different circumstances, but Nana only had one face.

Compared to the assassin who came and went without a trace and whom no one knew, the identity of the girl named Nana was remarkably solid.

She was both a newcomer freshly out of school and filled with excitement, and a rising company talent battered by society. With the dual concealment of clothing and appearance, no matter what image she appeared in, the girl had a way to make it convincing.

Though nobody knew exactly what Nana did, where she worked, how much she earned, or what her circumstances were, when they saw the girl's shy smile and the "evidence" of her occasionally leaving home with a briefcase or document box, they naturally accepted that she worked in insurance sales.

Thus, the saleswoman of some Columbia company returned to the old district, where no one cared what she really was. Nana's home was here.

Unlike the bright and glamorous commercial district, the tallest buildings in the old district were only five stories high.

The two-lane roads were sometimes paved with stone, sometimes cracked cement... The former was proof of the pioneers' hard work, while the latter was the result of a former governor's campaign promise to improve infrastructure.

However, before that governor could renovate more than a few facilities in the old district, he was reported, suspended, and investigated. His assistant then made statements concerning the Bolivar war and poured the funding into the National Guard... earning enough votes, at least. And so, the district's infrastructure renovation project was left unfinished.

Now the utility poles here were covered in small advertisements, and the ever-increasing electrical cables sagged heavily, seeming capable of blotting out the sky at dusk.

On the way home, she had to remember to avoid several particular stones, some of which were even joined together. Nana habitually hugged her briefcase and leapt over them.

Of course, it wasn't because Nana had buried fragmentation mines beneath them. The road had simply been neglected for too long, and the gaps were full of filthy water that seemed never to dry.

If she stepped directly on the stones, foul stagnant water accumulated over who knew how many days would splash outward. At best, it would harm innocent civilians; at worst, it would stain her leather shoes and black stockings. It was simply more detestable than land mines.

Yet compared to such crude infrastructure, the people of the old district were something else entirely.

Unlike the well-planned new districts and commercial areas, where everyone seemed to have a patch of grass to themselves, the people of the old district lived clustered together in tube-shaped apartment buildings.

The red-brick walls were mottled and worn. Withered ivy twisted its way upward, and the exterior steel staircases added after fire safety laws were passed provided the best climbing routes.

There were no residential gardens here, only vegetable plots in front of individual doors, shops, tailors, laundries, barbershops, bakeries... Every sort of storefront clustered along the ground floor of the street-facing buildings... Though if one added an outside staircase, the second floor worked too.

Along the way, Nana saw several tables of elderly people playing dominoes by the roadside. She smiled and nodded in greeting to a few overly familiar faces. But compared to the elders who knew when to stop, little children were the ones who demanded extreme vigilance.

"Yaaah—!! It's Mud!"

Accompanied by the young girl's banshee-like scream at the sight of Nana, the black-haired Feline's face crumpled, and the cat ears atop her head immediately drooped. Yet even ambushed by the noise, the incredibly flexible Miss Nana dodged a ball of mud with a quick sidestep.

As she watched a group of boys with multicolored fur laughing as they ran away, there was a small figure behind her who had taken two steps in pursuit before falling to the ground. White and black mottled her tiny body, mud speckled her little face, and tears shimmered in her eyes, making her look so weak and pitiful.

Her hair, which should have been pure white, was now clumped together with black mud. The young Feline girl, whose eyes still held a faint blue film, saw that she could not catch the prankster boys after screaming. Her lips quivered, and she immediately burst into loud sobs.

Her crying was even more piercing than her earlier scream. Everyone on the street wore pained expressions upon hearing it. The sound of a human child calling for help even drew a police officer out of a patrol car at the intersection...

The man in a Columbia police uniform looked around, realized it was not a child abduction, then looked at the girl whose face had been hit with mud and shouted toward the shops with helpless amusement.

"The little white cat is crying again! Where's her family!? Hurry up and take her to get cleaned up!"

The officer's shout received an immediate response. Two white-haired Feline boys poked their heads out from a shop, their faces sour.

"We're still working. If we leave now, we won't get paid..."

"Big sis—! Big sis—! Matilda is crying again!"

The voice rang through the street like a summoning chant. A young boy whose voice had yet to change was not necessarily quieter than a little girl, and soon, a slightly older silver-haired girl came out of the bakery.

From the scarf wrapped around her head, her rolled-up sleeves, and the flour still covering her arms, it was obvious that her work at the bakery wasn't finished either...

Just watching made Nana worry a little. She herself had gotten off early specifically to avoid rush hour, and there wasn't much time left before everyone returned to buy dinner. At a moment like this, could the eldest sister really manage taking care of the youngest?

The answer was obviously no. Facing her youngest sister covered in black mud, the silver-haired girl's expression became pained as well. She couldn't touch her little sister right now. If she did, the boss probably wouldn't let her touch the stove anymore.