Jade holds the toy rifle in her hands, closing one eye as she firmly aims at the Daruma doll. Her eyes are dead serious, as if holding a job's target in her sights. The crowds at the Fubuki shrine are thin this time of day, the late morning sun thawing the freshly fallen snow. Jade pulls the trigger, the pellet flying across the stall, knocking the doll off the shelf.

"Congratulations!" an exuberant old man says. Or tries to, anyway. But the L sounds more like an R, and the S is nowhere in sight.

"Shot like a balding Swede," Phoebe remarks, raising her coat to the cold.

The attendant holds a broad, phony smile, eyes deeply squinted, teeth disturbingly large. It's a smile he's given to many a foreigner--gaijin, as they call them. A smile belying hate. On the surface, he's thankful for their patronage (and their yen). In reality, however, he resents foreigners in his homeland. Not these foreigners as much. After all, they're young and attractive girls, and he is a creepy (and average) old man. He hands the doll to Jade, the girl taking a look at it.

"Cute," she says, staring into its beady eyes.

"Cute? It looks like a Scottish pervert," Phoebe replies. "They say those are good luck, though. Best hold onto it--we'll need all the luck we can get."

Phoebe and Jade have been in Japan for three days, scouting ahead and planning for their latest contract. It came on a rainy day, not long after their recent brush with the CIA. The Bureau's higher ups pulled some strings after that, making sure said agency behaved like good little boys and girls. But that only goes so far. Bad feelings still linger in the CIA over Tiller's death. All kinds of them. But Elegy isn't concerned. They've got bigger fish to fry.

The girls move through the shrine, the skies overhead a canvas of white and blue. There isn't a cloud in the sky, but the biting cold of winter detracts from the heavenly glory. The shrine is in Yokohama, and for all intents and purposes looks similar to other Shinto shrines dotting the land. Phoebe heaves a sigh, fog forming on her breath as she recalls the job's details.

Elegy

Your services are needed in Japan. 'Hideo Miyori', an underboss of the yakuza has been charged with the murder of a detective named Jotaro Kowata. Kowata was investigating Miyori's activities when he was suddenly found dead in his Tokyo apartment. He was shot twice in the head, and investigations into his death have implicated Miyori in the crime. Miyori is due in court, but the case keeps getting pushed back, undoubtedly due to yakuza meddling.

Our client is fed up with waiting, and seeks the expedient removal of Hideo Miyori. He also wishes to send a message to the Japanese underworld, and has requested hits on three additional targets: Jiro Mizuno, Seiji Otake, and Nobura Furukawa--all yakuza.

Take heed: Japan is an extremely paranoid country, and the yakuza are a very well organized group.

B

"...Can't believe we have four targets this time around," Phoebe says. "And in Japan, no less. The Bureau is seriously overextending us."

"Trust," Jade replies.

"Maybe they trust us. Or maybe this is a suicide mission and they want to get rid of us," Phoebe says. "I wouldn't put it past them. We've worked for them for two years, now, and they're still a mystery to me."

"Paranoia," Jade replies.

"...Yes. Let's hope that's all it is."

Meanwhile, in a neighborhood several miles south, a man wakes up in his house around noon. He heads down the stairs, giving a stretch as he finds his way to the kitchen. He takes a seat at the table, his mother preparing lunch as his father sits with a newspaper.

"Ah. Good morning, Seiji," his mother says.

"Morning," Seiji replies, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Morning?" his father grunts. "It's already noon. You're a sloth, you know that boy?"

"Aww, come on. I just woke up. Gimme a break, will ya?" Seiji replies.

"Break? You're almost twenty-five years old. When are you going to get a real job and act like a man?"

"Soon," Seiji replies, taking a bite from a rice ball. His father rustles the papers, eyes returning to the business page. He always has lunch at home. His office isn't far--just five minutes away by bullet train. He returns at twelve each day, which just so happens to be the time his slacker son wakes up.

When lunch is complete, Seiji heads to his room as his father returns to work. Soon after that, Seiji reemerges in a black schoolboy's uniform. "Bye, mom," he says, kissing her cheek before heading out the door.

He moves down the street, jacket open, exposing a white shirt underneath. He's hardly in school anymore, but likes the uniform, and continues to wear it often. His father says it's an apt metaphor for his immaturity. Seiji doesn't care. He just likes the way it looks. The neighborhood's mostly empty, without a single car in sight--typical of Japanese neighborhoods. The roads are mostly there for people to walk on.

Seiji leaves the area, soon reaching the city proper. He heads to an old arcade, spotting a pal of his seated at the usual place. "There you are, Jiro. You still playing this old shit?"

"Shit?" Jiro replies, adjusting his sleek, silver glasses. "This here's Tetris, I'll have you know. A game that is, before anything else, art."

"Whatever, man. You ready to go?" Seiji asks.

"One sec. I've almost beaten my old high score...!"

Several minutes pass. Seiji sighs, folding his arms. After failing in said venture, Jiro grits his teeth, angrily leaving the machine. "...Damn! I was so close! So close!" he says with animated zest.

"You're really into that stuff, huh? You oughta try out some of the more modern games."

"Bah. Those are for posers," Jiro spits. "Game makers in the old days knew how to design a fucking game. I tell ya, Tetris is art, man. Art! Forget it... A philistine wouldn't understand."

"Fuck you!" Seiji replies, the two shoving and horsing around. Occasionally, their sleeves roll up, revealing the tattoos underneath.

"Where we goin', anyway?" Jiro asks.

"Pay old Kazuya a visit. He came up short payin' his debts last week," Seiji replies. "...That's alright. I'm sure a bat will get the rest out of him."

Bats are about the best they can do, especially for a pair of petty loan sharks. Only the higher ups in the yakuza carry guns. Outside of the police force, firearms are almost unheard of in Japan. They find Kazuya at the docks, working in a warehouse the way he normally does. They corner him against a wall, proceeding to threaten and intimidate the thin, scrawny man. They flash him wry smiles, holding baseball bats against their shoulders. They're not about to use them, of course--they don't need Kazuya screaming and alerting the whole harbor. Yakuza methods are subtle, based on fear more than anything else. And not just in the underworld--indeed, most of Japan runs the very same way. Salarymen report to their jobs, working overtime for fear that they may be laid off. Women care for children, playing the role of timid wives for fear that they may be ostracized. It's quite evident in Japan, but in general, the human being tends to be a fear based creature. Its strength is not in its might, but its cunning--the ability to run up trees to avoid stronger creatures out of fear of death.

Over in Tokyo, in a dark, smoky room, four ranking yakuza sit around a card table. Their shirts are wide open, exposing their intricate tattoos. They play a game of Oicho-Kabu, discussing the topics of the day.

"These cops are breathing down my neck," Miyori says, a shifty looking man in his late forties.

"Don't worry. The judges have been paid off," Futaba says, dealing a card.

"And what if they switch them out at the last minute? What then?!" Miyori shouts.

"Don't sweat it, boss man. They've got nothin' on ya," Kitake says whimsically. "Still. It was reckless of you to go in there yourself. You shoulda let one of the boys handle ol' Kowata."

"That fool got what he deserved! Questioning my wife...! I wanted to kill that bastard myself!" Miyori barks.

Nobura remains silent, a large hulk of a man with a sword and sunglasses. "...Nines," he says quietly, displaying a winning hand.

"Aw, shit," Futaba says, throwing his deck down as the others react similarly.

"Not again! Nobu! You cheat!" Kitake says.

"A true man never cheats, nor uses a gun. A sword is a man's weapon," Nobura replies.

"Hyeah! Tell that to ISIS! They'll fill ya full of holes!" Kitake chides.

Miyori gives a grunt. "...I'm pleased to see you idiots can be so cavalier at a time like this."

"Relax, boss man. Those weasels in the courts would never have the gumption to convict a yakuza! Especially not one of your stature, lest they wanna come home to find their kids hangin' from a ceiling fan!" Kitake cackles.

"I concur, boss. I'm sure you have nothing to fear," Futaba says.

Miyori heaves a sigh. "...Hmm. Maybe you're right. I'm gettin' soft in my old age. Bah! I need a drink!" he says, slamming a shot.

Futaba and Kitake laugh, but Nobura remains silent. He knows full well that no one is untouchable. The yakuza are no exception, and it falls to him to guard his boss Miyori from dangerous threats.

Days go by, and Phoebe and Jade continue planning their mission. They watch their targets carefully, monitoring their daily routines from afar. They have to play this one out, as they were unable to smuggle many weapons in through customs. They continue their subterfuge, all the while posing as ordinary tourists.

Eventually, they split up, realizing that their targets are posted in two separate cities. Two are in Yokohama, and the other two are stationed in Tokyo. Jade stays behind in Yokohama, keeping an eye on the pair of loan sharks. Meanwhile, Phoebe hops a train, going after the bigger fish in downtown Tokyo. Phoebe has the harder job, and she knows it. She'll have to be damned sneaky to reach these kinds of yakuza elites.

Jade monitors Seiji, stealthily following him wherever he goes. He often visits the harbor. Fitting, perhaps, as harbors tend to attract rats. He and Jiro pay Kazuya yet another visit. And another. And another, hounding him on an almost daily basis. Each time, the threats worsen, and each time, Kazuya comes up a yen or two short.

"I'll pay the rest tomorrow! I swear!" Kazuya pleads, trembling against the warehouse wall.

"...Tomorrow. Tomorrow. It's always tomorrow," Seiji says sharply. "I've had enough of your bullshit. I say it's time we break some bones!"

Jiro hesitates. "...You sure, Seiji? If he yells, the harbor guards might be alerted."

"Who cares? If they come, we'll just knock the shit out of them, too! We're yakuza, remember? Yakuza gotta be tough!"

Just then, a flash of lights illuminate the warehouse. Seiji and Jiro fall, a pair of bullets lodged in their heads. They drop their wooden bats, the items rolling before coming to a stop. Kazuya looks downward, eyeing the corpses at his feet. Pools of blood start to grow. Kazuya cringes, heart pounding in his chest.

Suddenly, his feet take off, racing toward the warehouse doors as fast as they can. As he tries to get away, Jade appears, raising her silenced P30. Before he can react, a bullet finds its way into Kazuya's eye. The man falls dead, and Jade is left alone in a warehouse full of bodies. She puts her gun away, proceeding to drag the dead behind a crate in the back. They're heavy. They're very heavy. Even though they're scrawny, Jade is slight, and the bodies take awhile to move.

When the last one's hidden, Jade grabs a nearby mop. It's propped up against a wall, apparently left over by the guy who cleans the place. She dips the mop in the bucket, proceeding to sop up the blood left behind by the deaths. It doesn't take long. At least, not as long as it did to drag the bodies out of sight. When finished, Jade puts the cleaning materials away. She then leaves the warehouse, sneaking out the back door.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Tokyo, a young woman unpacks her clothes in the room she grew up in. It's been three weeks since her husband Jotaro was killed, and Haruko has had no choice but to move back in with her parents. Her heart is filled with both shame and grief, a deadly combination. She feared this day would come. She warned her husband about investigating the yakuza, but Kowata was undeterred. He always had a righteous soul, prioritizing bringing criminals to justice by any means necessary. He was just in a world of injustice. So naturally, he was killed.

"Miyori is a demon," Kowata used to say. "Even among the yakuza, his methods are unsound. He is a thief and a coward, and not above killing women and children to achieve his goals."

Haruko's eyes burn. Apparently, he's not above killing police detectives, either. She finishes unpacking, heading out to the kitchen to prepare some lunch. She's now cooking for her parents, as well as tidying up the house and doing various other chores. She knows it's the least she can do, and also knows that she needs to stay busy, lest grief overtake her mind.

Each day, she checks the newspapers, hoping for news that Miyori was finally locked up. She hopes for this fervently, as the thought of him rotting away in jail is her only solace. But the trial keeps getting delayed, giving Haruko little hope that her husband's killer will ever be brought to justice. She knows the yakuza's ways, and knows that they pay off officials to stay out of jail. Still, she holds out hope--hope for a glorious headline someday.

Over in downtown Tokyo, a room of yakuza sit around a fully nude girl. She lies face up on a table, various food items draped over her private bits. The practice is called nyotaimori, or 'body sushi', an archaic ritual where a group of perverts use a woman's body as a tray. It meshes well with the macho culture of the yakuza, and indeed the patriarchal nature of Japanese society at large. Such a display would make any sane person sick, yet Miyori and his goons seem to enjoy the spectacle.

"I want that bit there!" Kitake says, pointing to her nether region.

"No way. That area's off limits!" Miyori replies, giving a hearty laugh as the boys enjoy the feast.

"Oi. What's wrong, Nobura? No appetite today...?" Futaba asks.

"...Indeed," Nobura replies, choosing not to participate in such a degrading display. He eyes the woman's expression. She holds a fake smile, but Nobura can see right through it. He can tell that she's uncomfortable, and can only imagine what she's done in life to bring her here.

"Come on. Just one bite...!" Kitake says, trying to goad Nobura into adherence.

"I'll pass," Nobura replies.

"...What's wrong? Can't debase yourself into having fun with the rest of us...?" Kitake chides. He gives his usual grin, showcasing his nasty teeth and thin, pointy features.

As a few in the room laugh, Nobura falls silent, giving Kitake an icy stare. He walks up to the man, towering over him like a mountain over a rat. "...I said I'll pass."

Kitake gives a gulp, slinking away in his seat like the weasel that he is. The others all laugh again, no less than sixteen yakuza operatives filling the room. They all smoke and drink, and each of them partake in the feast of naked sashimi, save for Nobura.

At some point, Nobura excuses himself, heading to the restroom down the hall. He doesn't need to go. He just wants a break from the noise, the smoke and the fools. Their base is a high rise office building, with Miyori and his 'business partners' sharing the upper floors. Not much business goes on, however, unless you count smoking and gambling as big business.

Eventually, Nobura starts back toward the lounge. Along the way, however, he gets a bad feeling. The hairs on his neck stand up, the man instinctively grabbing the hilt of his sword. He creeps down the hall, noticing that the building has gotten eerily quiet. He carries himself like a samurai, and in many ways, he is. Nobura is a throwback to earlier times; a man, by all accounts, born two centuries too late. He prefers a sword to a gun, and hates the lights and sounds of the big city. But alas, his boss is in Tokyo, and he owes the yakuza a debt.

Upon returning to the lounge, Nobura stands silent, noticing everyone lying on the floor. His heart pounds loudly, but his demeanor remains stoical. He warily eyes the room, noticing that the dead have blood dripping down their mouths. Among them, his boss Miyori. Along with Futaba, Kitake, and the rest of his crew. All of them lie dead, even the unfortunate serving girl. Nobura draws his sword.

"...A demon is near," he whispers quietly.

"...No," a female voice says. Nobura turns, spotting Phoebe emerge from the nearby darkness. "...I'm worse."

She raises her M9, pointing the silenced pistol his way. Nobura stands motionless, the tip of his katana pointed back.

"...Hmph. Guns and poisons. Such cowardly weapons," he says.

Phoebe gives a smirk. "...Get off your high horse, samurai. You are yakuza--don't speak to me of honor."

The room goes silent, the two sizing each other up. Phoebe aims her weapon, Nobura standing perfectly still. She has a gun, and he has a sword. It's no contest--she could easily end this if she wanted to. But somehow, something keeps her from pulling the trigger. Something fascinates her about this man--perhaps even turns her on. Indeed, Nobura Furukawa is quite a specimen: a six foot seven lump of steel of a man. He has short black hair and sunglasses, broad shoulders and an open blue and white kimono. His features are chiseled and tough, with prominent eyebrows and a small black goatee. And he's armed with a sword. The balls this guy has, Phoebe thinks to herself.

"...I feel bad about this, you know," she says. "If you were armed with a gun like your pals, I'd have no qualms about killing you."

Nobura remains silent. "...Don't underestimate the sword. It is the fiercest weapon ever crafted by human hands."

Suddenly, he darts forward, giving Phoebe an underhanded slash. Her eyes go wide, surprised by the speed of his movements. She narrowly avoids the strike, proceeding to fire a shot his way. He tumbles out of its path, slashing two additional times. Phoebe somersaults backward, again taking aim as she fires a volley of shots. Nobura takes cover, hiding behind a nearby bar as bullets pelt his surroundings. Glasses and bottles shatter everywhere, peppering Nobura with shards and cutting open his cheek. He grabs a broken pitcher, proceeding to toss it across the lounge. Phoebe takes a moment to dodge. As she does this, Nobura rushes in, closing the distance between the two.

"Hyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" he exclaims, suddenly giving an overhead slash.

Phoebe grits her teeth, barely managing to block the sword with her gun. The force of his strike is strong, the metal on metal causing sparks to fly. It lights up the dimly lit room, the massive Nobura towering over his female opponent. He pushes with all his might, his blade wedged firmly between Phoebe's barrel and silencer. The girl gnashes her teeth, feeling the strength and weight of his enormous blade. She reinforces her gun with both hands, Nobura's blade mere inches away from her face. She can't keep this up for long, and she knows it. She realizes she has to act fast. As she's just about to fall, she raises a leg, swiftly kicking him in the gut. Nobura staggers back. Phoebe raises her gun, firing off a shot.

The bullet tears through the air, flying into his skull, cutting his sunglasses in two. A trail of blood jets out, the massive Nobura suddenly crashing to the ground. Phoebe stands motionless, eyeing her freshly fallen prey. She checks her worthy opponent, making sure that he is dead. The girl lightly trembles, adrenaline still coursing from the thrill of the fight. She feels a pang of regret. She can't be sure, but somehow, she feels she's killed a decent man.

"...Oi! Oi!" a voice suddenly shouts from afar. Phoebe goes pale, eyes turning toward the hall. A gang of men approach, dressed in suits and armed with handguns.

"Shit!" Phoebe says, firing off rounds as she quickly runs away.

The men return fire, no less than five of them pursuing her from down the hall. They let off wild shots, their bullets chipping off chunks of paint from the walls. Phoebe turns a corner, swiftly sprinting down a corridor. Her heart pounds in her chest, mouth dry as she changes her M9's clip. She cringes in annoyance. She could really use her MP5 at a time like this. An M9 is merely a pistol, whereas an MP5 is a fully automatic submachine gun. While the M9 is smaller and easier to conceal, SMGs are far more useful for killing targets en masse. Phoebe shoots at her pursuers, cursing those pesky Japanese customs agents all the while.

Eventually, she reaches a large stairwell. She quickly looks around, calculating the dangers of the situation. If she were to run down now, the boys would be able to shoot at her from an elevated position. She's not about to let that happen. She runs up the stairs, waiting for her opponents to arrive. As they enter the stairwell, Phoebe pops a pin, suddenly tossing a grenade their way. It bounces down to them, suddenly exploding in a brilliant flash of light. The Japanese boys scream, flying off in different directions from the force of the blast. The grenade kills three at once, but two of them manage to avoid the blast due to their positions.

"Tch!" Phoebe says, shooting down at them as they exchange gunfire. Neither of the men let up, ducking in and out of cover whilst firing back. Phoebe is impressed. Are they yakuza? Are they security? She doesn't know, but whoever they are, they're brave not to turn tail and run. Maybe it's just foolishness. Maybe it's that Japanese male pride of theirs that prevents them from running from a woman. Whatever it is, it gets them both killed. In a flash, Phoebe lands two shots: one in the head and one in the neck.

Phoebe takes a moment, catching her breath as her final target falls dead. She slowly descends the stairs, returning to the proverbial floor of death. She spots no one in sight, the girl warily holstering her gun. In a single afternoon, she's killed twenty-two people--the most she's ever killed by far.

...At least in one day.

Eventually, she returns to the streets, meeting up at Tokyo International with an old friend.

"Finished?" Jade asks, more than curious.

"...Yeah. You?" Phoebe says, pleased to see her well.

"Indeed," Jade replies with equal relief.

The girls board a flight, leaving the land of the rising sun.

The following day, Kowata's widow leaves the house, grabbing the newspaper. Suddenly, Haruko freezes, standing unable to speak. Her eyes read the front page, barely able to believe what she sees.

'Underworld boss Hideo Miyori slain in mysterious massacre'.

She blinks several times, a steady smile forming on her lips. A tear streaks down her face. At last, her husband is avenged.

It's the most glorious headline she's seen in her life.

Back at the penthouse in Paris, Phoebe and Jade enjoy some well deserved time off. The job in Japan was tough, but turned out to be their highest paying contract to date, surpassing even the Italy job. They sit near a living room window, eyeing a chess board laid out in front of them. Jade plays as black, employing a risky line of the Latvian Gambit.

"Check," she says, moving her bishop against Phoebe's king. Phoebe thinks for a minute, deciding to block the threat with her knight.

They concentrate hard on the game. In many ways, their playing styles mimic their own ways of killing: Phoebe plays defensively, prioritizing safety above all else. Jade is a reckless attacker, preferring to sow the seeds of chaos against her opponents. Both are evenly matched, having won the same amount of games as they've lost. Eventually, it comes to a draw. The two leave the house, deciding to take a stroll around the town.

It's perhaps not the best day for it. It's cold--very cold. It's not supposed to snow in Paris, but apparently climate change never got the memo. A light snow falls from the sky--the kind that will be gone the next day, but temporarily coats the world in white. The ladies bundle up in their heavy winter gear, Phoebe in a beige women's trench coat as Jade sports a long gray winter jacket and snow boots.

"This snow is kind of nice," Phoebe says. "Don't get much of it here. It won't be nice in Russia, though."

"Nyet," Jade replies, looking cute in her winter cap.

"Sending us there in the dead of winter. Thanks, Bureau. You're much too kind," Phoebe chides.

Elegy

It's off to Moscow this time. I know. Sorry to send you this time of year, but elections are nearing, and a certain client wants a candidate dead. 'Dimitri Vorinov', liberal candidate for president of Russia is whipping up support for his campaign fast. With his fiercely leftwing views and support for globalist policies, he's creating a stir where there normally isn't one. This has ruffled quite a few feathers in the Russian political machine, and accordingly, a wealthy client has asked for Vorinov's death.

Note that this is a very high profile contract. Accordingly, we've sent an agent in there already to scout ahead. She will assist in your task, as well as plant evidence to make sure that Vorinov's opponent is framed for his death. It's a false flag operation, meaning there's zero room for mistakes. Our agent will contact you at the hotel we've booked you in, and will be using the codename 'Natasha'.

Good luck. Don't freeze to death.

B

"'Don't freeze to death' he says. If I ever meet the prick who writes these emails, remind me to kick him square in the nuts," Phoebe says.

"Done," Jade replies quickly.

The next day over in Russia, a man stands before a large crowd in a heavy snowstorm. Despite the rough conditions, they've all turned out to hear their candidate speak.

"People of Russia! Hear me now! The days of the KGB and the Soviet Union are finished! Why should we go on this way, slaving under oppressive regimes with old ways of thinking time and again? It's time for a new dawn--to bring our beloved country boldly into the twenty-first century!" Vorinov says. The crowd goes wild. Many can't believe what they're hearing. They thought it wasn't possible; a genuine candidate who openly speaks out against the current regime. The audience is ecstatic. They clearly love this man--or at least, what he represents: a small glimmer of hope.

Somewhere amidst the crowd, Phoebe and Jade look on, surrounded by cheers for their latest mark. The duo remain silent, Phoebe slowly shaking her head.

"...Poor, misguided fools. Don't they realize that politicians are all liars?" she says.

"Desperate," Jade replies.

"For change? Maybe you're right. I suppose any candidate would look better than the current status quo," Phoebe says. "Still, this is gonna be tough. He's surrounded by security guards. Looks to be around six of them. And then there's Natasha. I don't know if I trust her or not. What do you think?"

Jade goes quiet, recalling their encounter with said woman at the Fresh Tree Hotel.

"Welcome to Mother Russia," Natasha had said, meeting them in the lobby just after they'd checked in. She was a striking girl. Thin. Fair skinned. Straight black hair with a warm, steady smile. She looked to be around Phoebe's age, perhaps older, wearing a long double-breasted military coat of navy blue. "...Come. We can't talk here."

The trio entered the elevator, soon reaching the roof of the twenty story hotel. They approached one of the railings, looking out at the snowbound city of Moscow. "...So. You are Elegy. Your reputations precede you, though I must admit I'm shocked to learn that you are a pair."

"Shocks are the spice of life," Phoebe retorted. "So what's this 'help' you're supposed to be giving us?"

"Straight to the point, eh...?" Natasha replied. "Very well. In short, this is a very important hit. Accordingly, the Bureau has tasked me with making sure that you see it through, and that zero mistakes are made."

"Babysitting," Jade replied.

"Indeed. Our client is a major player in this country, and failure to complete this mission could tarnish the Bureau's good name."

"We don't make 'mistakes'," Phoebe replied curtly. "With due respect, Natasha, the only mistake the Bureau made was teaming us up with you. We always work alone, and frankly, we take their apparent lack of trust in us as an insult."

"Oh dear. Why so hostile...?" Natasha asked. "Our line of work is dangerous--you should welcome all the help you can get. My assistance doesn't mean they don't trust you. It just means they really, really can't afford to screw this one up. How long have you worked for the Bureau? Two years? Maybe less? I've been with them for five years, now. I guess they just wanted someone with seniority to tag along. Don't take it personally."

Back in the cheering crowd, Jade considers Phoebe's question, slowly shaking her head. "...Unsure."

Phoebe sighs. "...I know. That's how I feel. Natasha's a wild card, but if she's been with the Bureau for five years, I suppose she knows her stuff. Still, I don't like this chaperoning. She'd best just stay out of our way."

Jade echoes her sentiments. But that's not her main concern right now. She stands listening to the candidate, watching his mannerisms, his speech, and his smile. She sees the hope of the crowd; sees them hanging on his promising words of change. Maybe they're hollow. Maybe they're not. It's not up to Jade to decide, nor pass judgement on her targets. Still, she gets a sick feeling. Something tells her Vorinov means well.

Over the coming days, the girls follow him around in secret, waiting for the right moment to strike. It's an assassin's job to learn their targets' routines and rituals by heart. The Bureau supplies minor details, but it's up to Elegy to wait their victims out. Patience is a virtue, and the higher the stakes, the more important the art of stealth becomes.

Eventually, Vorinov makes an appearance at Nevgoresk Park. It is an outdoor venue, which despite the snow, his supporters still turn out for. They are a constant annoyance, as crowds are hardly an assassin's best friend. Still, they can work to one's advantage--or be avoided entirely.

Far across the street, a trio wait in the darkness of an abandoned cathedral. They sit in the bell tower, Jade with her Dragunov as Natasha eyes Vorinov through binoculars. "...It's almost time. He's about to make a speech," she says. "The snow is pretty thick. I hope you're a good shot."

"She is. Trust me. I've seen her shoot from a speedboat with pinpoint accuracy," Phoebe replies, leaning against a wall.

"Good. I should also tell you that I've already planned our escape route. From here, it's straight down the stairs, then into the sewers from the manhole cover out back. Then, we head southeast a few blocks, then return to ground level where I have a car waiting," Natasha says.

"...Damn. You're pretty thorough, huh sister?" Phoebe says.

Natasha smiles. "But of course. You don't reach Agent First Class by being careless."

Phoebe falls silent. "...Well, thanks for all the help. Sorry I was so cold to you before. I...may have misjudged you."

"It's fine. Coldness fits with this country's climate. And you two are a team--it's natural for you to distrust outsiders."

As Phoebe and Natasha converse, Jade remains noticeably silent. She holds her Dragunov close, hugging it with one arm as the three sit around and wait. The cathedral's a menacing place, thick with dust, cobwebs, and little light shining through.

"...You okay?" Natasha asks, eyeing Jade through the shadows.

"...Yes," Jade replies, sounding calm and stoical.

"You sure? You're not getting the jitters, are you?"

"Don't worry. She's always like this before a kill--quiet and serious until the target is dead," Phoebe says.

Minutes tick by, with Phoebe and Natasha continuing their small talk. Soon, the moment of truth arrives. Natasha grabs her binoculars, again surveying the snowy park. "...Alright. Looks like he's started to speak. Now's our chance. The wind's kicking up, so you might want to--"

Pop.

Suddenly, in mid sentence, Jade shoots her in the back of the head. Natasha falls to the floor, dropping dead with a loud, inglorious thud. The binoculars fall from the tower, dropping to the snowy ground seven stories below.

"Wha...? What the?!" Phoebe says, stepping away.

Jade holsters her gun. "Phoebe," she says. "...I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore."

Phoebe looks to her friend, shocked by her unusual verbosity. "...Jade!"

"Killing Vorinov is wrong," Jade says. "I can't be sure, but I think he really wants to bring change to this country."

Phoebe blinks twice, slowly composing herself. "...That may be true. But still, it's of little importance to us. We've got a job to do, and if we don't pull it off, you know damn well what the Bureau will do to us."

"...Then so be it," Jade declares. "I'm tired of being used--tired of being their loyal lapdog. That's not what I signed up for; not why I got into this line of work to start with."

Phoebe forces a smile. "...You didn't have a choice--and neither did I," she says. "Neither of us knew what we were getting into. But now that we're in, there's no getting out." She eyes Natasha's corpse. "...But now...now that you've killed Natasha, there's no turning back. Jesus Christ, Jade. We're in serious trouble, now."

"I'm sorry, Phoebe. But since we're being honest here, there's something else I should tell you."

"...What's that?"

Jade hesitates. "...It's about what Faye said. When she asked if we'd killed any CIA agents, I believe she was referring to me."

"What?" Phoebe asks.

"You see...not long after we returned from Naples, a man approached me near the Garden of the Royal Palace. He kept asking these weird questions, and requested that I show him around town. I thought he was suspicious, so I dragged him to a back alley, killed him, and dumped his body in the sewers. His name was Edward Flax, and his ID was issued in Langley, Virginia--home of the CIA," Jade explains.

Phoebe stands dumbfounded. "You killed him...in broad daylight? On the streets?! That's crazy! Do you have a death wish?"

"It was well out of sight, and I believed it was for the best. He was highly suspicious, and may have been trying to meddle in our affairs. I would've told you sooner, but I didn't want to worry you."

Phoebe stands in silence, eventually heaving a heavy sigh. "...Ugh. Dammit all to hell. You're usually quiet, Jade, but when you speak your mind, you really know how to drop some bombshells."

"Sorry," Jade says.

"...Oh, stop apologizing already. You sound like a broken record. I guess you did the right thing in the end. But this...," Phoebe replies, staring down at Natasha's corpse. "You chose one hell of a time to defy the organization. You realize this is Russia, right? If we don't kill Vorinov, someone else will."

"...Maybe. But still, I don't want to be the one to pull the trigger," Jade says.

Phoebe gives a smile. "...And why not? It's a little late to be playing the chivalrous card, don't you think? How many lives have we taken so far? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Honestly, I've lost count. It's too late to feign innocence now. There's blood on our hands--blood than can never be washed off."

"...I know," Jade replies. "But still, I cannot abide by killing innocent people, especially ones with good intentions. Vorinov's motives are pure, of that I have no doubt. Why else would he risk his very life for what he believes in? And not just him--that Swedish guy, as well. Linderman was a good man. I did some research on him after the hit, and it turns out he did charity work for his local church. I can't go on like this. I can't go on killing people out of sheer greed."

Phoebe gives a pause. "...It wasn't just greed. I, for one, killed out of fear of being killed by the Bureau. We walked right into a trap with those creeps--a trap which had a locking door hidden behind it. They were both a blessing and a curse: they made us financially secured, but had us on a short leash the whole way. Like you said, we were their lapdogs--and now that we've bitten back, we are of no use to them. I fear our days are numbered. It's only a matter of time before they send someone out to kill us."

"...To assassinate the assassins," Jade replies warily.

"...Indeed. Wonder who it'll be? Johann? Esther? Faye, perhaps? Let's hope not. That chick was as cold as they come," Phoebe says. "We've worked with numerous other agents over the years. They could send any one of them, or someone we've never seen."

Phoebe then rubs her chin. "...But of course, there could be a way back from this. We could just say that Natasha was killed in a fight with police. But then...she could be wired--they may be listening in right now."

"Not to mention such a commotion would certainly make the news. The Bureau isn't stupid. If we lie to them, they'll surely know," Jade says. "And besides, she was shot in the back of the head by a small caliber round--hardly the hallmark of a gunfight with Russian police. And who would want to return? I say we cut all ties with that organization and never look back."

Phoebe falls silent, the two standing in the abandoned cathedral tower. "...You're right. And to be honest, I feel the same way as you. I've never liked the Bureau. Despite their good pay, their methods are underhanded and very shady. I suppose all organizations like them are. But then, the Bureau doesn't care about their agents--once they're done using them, they toss them aside like trash. They're an evil organization--one I want nothing more to do with."

With that, the girls flee Russia, leaving Natasha dead and Dimitri Vorinov very much alive. They don't return to Paris--both are smart enough to realize that said city is no longer safe. In truth, it's been toxic ever since the CIA incident. But they enjoyed protection from the Bureau back then. Now, that protection is gone, and the city they once called home no longer welcomes them.

And that's just fine with them--their work as assassins has made them financially set. They keep their money in overseas accounts, with Phoebe carefully investing in commodities and other assets. Their wealth accrues wealth. In truth, they never have to work another day in their lives. They have enough to live comfortably, but know that the Bureau is hunting them day and night.

The duo weigh their options, figuring they need a new country to lay low in. They calculate the risks, deciding to set up shop in rural Switzerland. They find a nice cottage in the alps, settling in after a few weeks of moving. They head out to the veranda, looking out at the breathtaking view of the mountains.

"I think we'll like it here," Phoebe says.

"Cozy," Jade replies, a cool breeze blowing by.

"Best not get too comfortable, though. This may be remote, but we'd be fooling ourselves to think they won't find us out here. The organization's reach is far. We must stay vigilant if we wish to remain alive."

"I'm not scared," Jade replies, checking her P30. "...If they come, we'll just deal with them accordingly."