[rapturia]
the girl who wore pants
Rapturia Manifesto I.4
I. Soothsayer
Lunae shines brilliantly after the rain. Street lights rub softness into the sky like an old black rug worn out to dry, and humidity swells, thick and high. Nicks peers out the door and clicks a steel silver lighter on. It’s too hot for that slim black jacket, but she has learned theatre from the best.
It has been three years since her last visit to the soothsayer in the City. Feet slip into steel-toed black pumps, and roughed lips grip the smoking cigarette tightly. Slim fingers check the clips of the suspenders, and then, once satisfied with the grips, shrugs the straps off those crisply folded shoulders of the pristine white oxford. Again, theatre. One manicured red hand slips the cigarette lighter into her black pants’ front pocket, and the other pushes open the door.
The City looms ahead.
A beehive on Tsukia, her father once boasted. If the Knox family are the brains of the Outfit, then the City must be the blood. Back then, her father had been too busy securing power over Tsukia from the Order and local gangs, so when Nicks inherited his outrageous criminal organization from his cold dead feet, she immediately drew maps and solidified the walls. Lunae shines brilliantly tonight, and steel bars light up the perimeters of the City. The roof of the beehive gleams white, and Nicks finishes her smoke before she enters her personal supply of life.
The soothsayer lives on the fourth floor.
To be honest, she has been hesitant at first. But, at that time, Sage had been persistent and despite the suspicious gleam lining those jade green eyes, Nicks has learned to take his words with gravity. She never asked how he knew of the soothsayer, the woman with the greasy shock of white hair and melted eyes like burned down candles, but that the lack of questioning has always been the most pertinent aspect of his contract. Her thick black pumps click loudly down the damp, dark corridors of the first level in the City. It’s near four in the morning, and water murmurs down the pipes to accompany her shadow. Nicks pauses by a ladder, and watches a fat rat scurry past.
The soothsayer keeps a burning lantern behind her soot stained window, and Nicks makes her way like a moth. The room, with a woolly mat, a musty blanket, scattered noodle bowls heavy with roaches, and a stone cistern, barely offers enough room for two people to sit down. As the soothsayer shoves aside the noodle bowls, Nicks peers into the cistern and scatters a potent water cleaner into the depths.
“The same as the last night,” Nicks demands, and kneels on the only bare spot on the ground.
The soothsayer grins. One tooth dares to rot out. “You’ve a new boy.”
“Hardly. I only know boys.”
“But a special one.”
Nicks smiles wryly. “If you’re talking about the perfume, it was my choice for myself. Now, my fortune?”
Those pale as paper fingers, surprisingly fair and smooth, grab a hand full of black bones under the wool mat and begin to shake. The soothsayer whispers, chants, murmurs, and gasps, but Nicks watches quietly and reserves judgment. Finally, the bones scatter across the floor-knocking into the cistern and bowls-and the soothsayer reaches over to the nearest one.
Nicks raises an eyebrow when the soothsayer sighs.
“Well?”
“It’s the same as the last time.”
“Well, that’s not helpful,” the young Boss snorts and shakes her head. The soothsayer begins to stammer, but Nicks interjects, “Look, it’s okay. You do what you do, and you come recommended. Relax.” She stands up, her head hitting the fetish dolls hanging from the ceiling. “Here. Here’s some extra money. Go hire someone to clean up this place.” She reaches out to grab the soothsayer’s hand, and as she forces those fingers to close around the bill, Nicks suddenly tightens her grip and swallows hard.
“What’s wrong?” the soothsayer whimpers.
“Nothing,” Nicks whispers. “I just … I thought I remembered something. But it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
II. Nicks
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers as she shifts on the chair behind her father. Candidates, sullen men with sunken eyes and ghastly pallors, filter in and out of the room. Her father, a man bulked up under a black suit while chewing a cigar, barks out the same questions again and again, and eventually ends each interview with a wave of his hand. The room stinks of incense and tobacco, but the cigar crushed between the Boss’ teeth has never been lit.
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers. She is four and at the barber’s. A large figure looms in the corner and waves around promises-promises of luxury, of power, of a future. She rubs her red, swollen eyes but the large man, who claims to be her father, says that it’s okay, it’s okay to have short hair, it’s okay to say good bye to Mommy (who’s going to a very special place, by the way, you’ll understand when you’re older), it’s okay to look like a boy. In fact, at this place where you’ll be going, it’ll be a boy’s club, do you understand that, Nyoko? Nikki? Nikki, my son? The barber snips away those long black locks until the tips crown around her forehead, and when the girl glances into the mirror at last, she bursts into tears.
She’s a boy. She’s going to be a boy now.
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers when, five years later, she yawns, bored, as the candidates give the same answer, again and again. Of course they want to work for the Outfit. The Outfit, despite its foreign roots and name, has proven to be the most successful underground organization against the Order and the practically defunct Tsukian government in the history of the island. Being a part of the Outfit meant power, prestige, and protection. Nyoko yawns again but a slap snaps her to attention. She glances swiftly back at her father, at that retreating great big hand, and rubs the red welt swelling across her cheek. She uncrosses her legs, sits up, and swallows the lump.
“This is your fault, you know that?” her father sternly reprimands. “I told you to act more like those boys you hang out with. Hajime Minami. Hisashi Kurosaki. This wouldn’t have happened if you were more like them.”
Nyoko nods.
She remembers that night, one year ago, but like a blur after long dry insomnia. Hajime tells the story better than her, but his voice stammers when they round the details and he always stares at the ground. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand why her friend will not look her in the eyes as he recounts for her, recounts the reasons behind the blood gleaming long the blade of a nine inch wicked knife and a window leading to the streets.
It began with the hitman.
Nyoko doesn’t really remember his name, and, as she later decides, it’s not terribly important because the hitman betrayed the Outfit. She first met the hitman when she was four and at the barber’s, and watched the little funny shaped shadow step out from behind her father’s broad shoulders. “You will learn everything from our family’s hitman,” her father announced and practically disappeared from her life again after that. And so she did. She learned stealth, prowess, how to separate black from black when only Lunae hung in the sky. She learned about the blades, the guns, and the gut-affirming satisfaction of the cleanest of kills. One day, she asked the hitman if he were training her to be a cat, and he laughed before reaching out to stroke her fur.
Now, Hajime fills in the gaps. She had scheduled a play date with her friend that evening, and when she didn’t show, he came knocking on her apartment’s door. He heard the muffled shouts, the screams, and pleads, and he pounded heavy against the door until the door knocked off its hinges and Nyoko stood there under the flooded lights with eyes gleaming open and a mouth twisted into a scream. He ran towards her, but her arm held up the bloodied nine inch wicked blade up to his throat so he screeched to a halt and begged, begged that she wake up, snap in, break the spell, and behind them, the curtains around a bloodied window pane swayed and tenants gawked.
They never saw the hitman again.
It was her fault.
If only she weren’t a girl.
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers. The smoky room suddenly brightens. At first, she thinks that her father has lit another candle, but their candles have never burned so red. This stranger is not like the rest of the candidates, with his black velvet suit, dark red hair, and eyes so green that the girl suddenly believes in the fabled forests of the west. The stranger produces a slim cigarette from his jacket’s pocket, leans back, and then, with that smile which Nyoko will soon learn so well, asks, “Sir, can I light that cigar for you?”
Her father smiles. “So kind of you to notice.”
“You’ll waste it like that,” the stranger laughs, and then gestures to Nyoko. “What about your son?”
“What about him?”
“He looks like he wants to ask a few questions.”
“A trickster, I see,” her father notices. “Well, son, what do you want to say for yourself?”
Nyoko leaps out of her seat and stands with her gaze rapt on that light-hearted stranger. Her throat attempts various greetings, various demands, but finally gives up variety for the most obvious one of all, “What is your name, sir?”
“Sage. And yours, my dear boy?”
She smiles. “My name is Nicks.” And that is all.
tbc
Rapturia Manifesto I.4
I. Soothsayer
Lunae shines brilliantly after the rain. Street lights rub softness into the sky like an old black rug worn out to dry, and humidity swells, thick and high. Nicks peers out the door and clicks a steel silver lighter on. It’s too hot for that slim black jacket, but she has learned theatre from the best.
It has been three years since her last visit to the soothsayer in the City. Feet slip into steel-toed black pumps, and roughed lips grip the smoking cigarette tightly. Slim fingers check the clips of the suspenders, and then, once satisfied with the grips, shrugs the straps off those crisply folded shoulders of the pristine white oxford. Again, theatre. One manicured red hand slips the cigarette lighter into her black pants’ front pocket, and the other pushes open the door.
The City looms ahead.
A beehive on Tsukia, her father once boasted. If the Knox family are the brains of the Outfit, then the City must be the blood. Back then, her father had been too busy securing power over Tsukia from the Order and local gangs, so when Nicks inherited his outrageous criminal organization from his cold dead feet, she immediately drew maps and solidified the walls. Lunae shines brilliantly tonight, and steel bars light up the perimeters of the City. The roof of the beehive gleams white, and Nicks finishes her smoke before she enters her personal supply of life.
The soothsayer lives on the fourth floor.
To be honest, she has been hesitant at first. But, at that time, Sage had been persistent and despite the suspicious gleam lining those jade green eyes, Nicks has learned to take his words with gravity. She never asked how he knew of the soothsayer, the woman with the greasy shock of white hair and melted eyes like burned down candles, but that the lack of questioning has always been the most pertinent aspect of his contract. Her thick black pumps click loudly down the damp, dark corridors of the first level in the City. It’s near four in the morning, and water murmurs down the pipes to accompany her shadow. Nicks pauses by a ladder, and watches a fat rat scurry past.
The soothsayer keeps a burning lantern behind her soot stained window, and Nicks makes her way like a moth. The room, with a woolly mat, a musty blanket, scattered noodle bowls heavy with roaches, and a stone cistern, barely offers enough room for two people to sit down. As the soothsayer shoves aside the noodle bowls, Nicks peers into the cistern and scatters a potent water cleaner into the depths.
“The same as the last night,” Nicks demands, and kneels on the only bare spot on the ground.
The soothsayer grins. One tooth dares to rot out. “You’ve a new boy.”
“Hardly. I only know boys.”
“But a special one.”
Nicks smiles wryly. “If you’re talking about the perfume, it was my choice for myself. Now, my fortune?”
Those pale as paper fingers, surprisingly fair and smooth, grab a hand full of black bones under the wool mat and begin to shake. The soothsayer whispers, chants, murmurs, and gasps, but Nicks watches quietly and reserves judgment. Finally, the bones scatter across the floor-knocking into the cistern and bowls-and the soothsayer reaches over to the nearest one.
Nicks raises an eyebrow when the soothsayer sighs.
“Well?”
“It’s the same as the last time.”
“Well, that’s not helpful,” the young Boss snorts and shakes her head. The soothsayer begins to stammer, but Nicks interjects, “Look, it’s okay. You do what you do, and you come recommended. Relax.” She stands up, her head hitting the fetish dolls hanging from the ceiling. “Here. Here’s some extra money. Go hire someone to clean up this place.” She reaches out to grab the soothsayer’s hand, and as she forces those fingers to close around the bill, Nicks suddenly tightens her grip and swallows hard.
“What’s wrong?” the soothsayer whimpers.
“Nothing,” Nicks whispers. “I just … I thought I remembered something. But it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
II. Nicks
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers as she shifts on the chair behind her father. Candidates, sullen men with sunken eyes and ghastly pallors, filter in and out of the room. Her father, a man bulked up under a black suit while chewing a cigar, barks out the same questions again and again, and eventually ends each interview with a wave of his hand. The room stinks of incense and tobacco, but the cigar crushed between the Boss’ teeth has never been lit.
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers. She is four and at the barber’s. A large figure looms in the corner and waves around promises-promises of luxury, of power, of a future. She rubs her red, swollen eyes but the large man, who claims to be her father, says that it’s okay, it’s okay to have short hair, it’s okay to say good bye to Mommy (who’s going to a very special place, by the way, you’ll understand when you’re older), it’s okay to look like a boy. In fact, at this place where you’ll be going, it’ll be a boy’s club, do you understand that, Nyoko? Nikki? Nikki, my son? The barber snips away those long black locks until the tips crown around her forehead, and when the girl glances into the mirror at last, she bursts into tears.
She’s a boy. She’s going to be a boy now.
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers when, five years later, she yawns, bored, as the candidates give the same answer, again and again. Of course they want to work for the Outfit. The Outfit, despite its foreign roots and name, has proven to be the most successful underground organization against the Order and the practically defunct Tsukian government in the history of the island. Being a part of the Outfit meant power, prestige, and protection. Nyoko yawns again but a slap snaps her to attention. She glances swiftly back at her father, at that retreating great big hand, and rubs the red welt swelling across her cheek. She uncrosses her legs, sits up, and swallows the lump.
“This is your fault, you know that?” her father sternly reprimands. “I told you to act more like those boys you hang out with. Hajime Minami. Hisashi Kurosaki. This wouldn’t have happened if you were more like them.”
Nyoko nods.
She remembers that night, one year ago, but like a blur after long dry insomnia. Hajime tells the story better than her, but his voice stammers when they round the details and he always stares at the ground. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand why her friend will not look her in the eyes as he recounts for her, recounts the reasons behind the blood gleaming long the blade of a nine inch wicked knife and a window leading to the streets.
It began with the hitman.
Nyoko doesn’t really remember his name, and, as she later decides, it’s not terribly important because the hitman betrayed the Outfit. She first met the hitman when she was four and at the barber’s, and watched the little funny shaped shadow step out from behind her father’s broad shoulders. “You will learn everything from our family’s hitman,” her father announced and practically disappeared from her life again after that. And so she did. She learned stealth, prowess, how to separate black from black when only Lunae hung in the sky. She learned about the blades, the guns, and the gut-affirming satisfaction of the cleanest of kills. One day, she asked the hitman if he were training her to be a cat, and he laughed before reaching out to stroke her fur.
Now, Hajime fills in the gaps. She had scheduled a play date with her friend that evening, and when she didn’t show, he came knocking on her apartment’s door. He heard the muffled shouts, the screams, and pleads, and he pounded heavy against the door until the door knocked off its hinges and Nyoko stood there under the flooded lights with eyes gleaming open and a mouth twisted into a scream. He ran towards her, but her arm held up the bloodied nine inch wicked blade up to his throat so he screeched to a halt and begged, begged that she wake up, snap in, break the spell, and behind them, the curtains around a bloodied window pane swayed and tenants gawked.
They never saw the hitman again.
It was her fault.
If only she weren’t a girl.
This is what Nyoko Knox remembers. The smoky room suddenly brightens. At first, she thinks that her father has lit another candle, but their candles have never burned so red. This stranger is not like the rest of the candidates, with his black velvet suit, dark red hair, and eyes so green that the girl suddenly believes in the fabled forests of the west. The stranger produces a slim cigarette from his jacket’s pocket, leans back, and then, with that smile which Nyoko will soon learn so well, asks, “Sir, can I light that cigar for you?”
Her father smiles. “So kind of you to notice.”
“You’ll waste it like that,” the stranger laughs, and then gestures to Nyoko. “What about your son?”
“What about him?”
“He looks like he wants to ask a few questions.”
“A trickster, I see,” her father notices. “Well, son, what do you want to say for yourself?”
Nyoko leaps out of her seat and stands with her gaze rapt on that light-hearted stranger. Her throat attempts various greetings, various demands, but finally gives up variety for the most obvious one of all, “What is your name, sir?”
“Sage. And yours, my dear boy?”
She smiles. “My name is Nicks.” And that is all.
tbc