Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ Our Time is Running Out ( Chapter 13 )

Michael looked at himself in the mirror. This whole thing was so stupid. She was attached...and…he was a total amateur at this kind of thing… Not to mention that he knew the real reason for his crush. Life at STN-J was easier to deal with, if he had someone else to dream about. And it was true that Aiko did remind him of Robin…there was that same gentle, kind shyness in both of them. Robin was the only one who'd ever been so nice to him. But she was gone. Life was going on, and he finally had a chance to go on with it.

“What are you doing?” he asked. But he went anyway.

He never reached Mr. Lucky's. He could see that the place was closed when he turned the corner, but kept walking anyway. But the sounds of an altercation in the preceding alley stopped him short.

“I told you to start taking different shifts.”

“What can I do? This is the only slot they have available for me. Do you want me to just quit?” Michael recognized Aiko's voice immediately. “You know how much we need this money…what with you…”

“I told you to shut up about that!”

“But it's true! I told you I would support you…I know how hard it is for you to find work, being…what you are…”

“Fuck, Aiko, why don't you just say it for once? I'm a goddamn Witch, a fucking monster, and-”

Something crashed. Aiko shrieked. “Please, stop-”

“I can't, goddammit!”

Michael would later reflect on this moment and realize that only video-game training had saved him—this kind of occurrence just wasn't in any STN-J manual. He brought his wallet out, flipping it open, and turned the corner.

“STN-J!” he barked. Aiko's boyfriend clutched his head. There was a trashcan in the air; it fell immediately. Aiko flinched. She stared at him with wide eyes.

“Leave, and we'll all forget about this,” Michael intoned. “But I don't want to see you here, again. Ever.” He swallowed, willed his hand not to shake. Aside from his STN-J identification, he was completely powerless. Orbo was a thing of the past, and he wasn't the kind to carry Witch-killer bullets or the guns with which to shoot them.

Without a sound, the other man turned tail and ran up the alley, turning a corner and disappearing from sight. Michael smiled helplessly; almost unable to believe he'd pulled it off. He'd made the bad guy go away. And he wasn't dead. It was pretty amazing, really. Aiko sniffed, and Michael's hand fell from the air heavily. He blinked, swallowed. “I'm-”

But he didn't have time to finish, as Aiko ran at him, and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I know it sounds so silly and cliché, but you really saved me.” She sniffed again, loudly. “I didn't know what to do…”

“He didn't hurt you, did he?”

“No, never!” she insisted, looking up at him. Michael felt his knees go weak. “He'd never do that, it's just that I was scared…is that prejudiced of me, do you think?”

“I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask about that,” Michael admitted. “In my line of work, I know of a lot of nasty Witches. But I work,” his voice hitched, “and have worked, with some really great Craft-users.” He felt his ears getting hotter by the second. “But hey, I'm standing here telling you about my job, like a total American, where are my manners? Are you okay?” Blushing, Aiko seemed to realize that she was still hugging him, and jumped away just enough to create some space between them.

“Oh, I'm okay, don't worry, just a little shaken, that's all...” Her eyes dipped, shyly. “Thank you, again. It was really lucky for me that you were here.” She looked at him anew. “But, you're not due for your next haircut, yet…”

Michael's hand found the back of his head, nervously. He rubbed the short hair back there. “Um…that's true…”

“Then, why…?”

Michael felt his face get hot. “Er…”

Some kind of realization dawned on Aiko's face. She smiled brightly. “Take me home,” she said.

“What?”

“I want you to walk me home.” She nodded eagerly, as though agreeing with herself. “Can you do that for me, please?”

“Sure,” Michael answered, still unable to believe his luck and wondering if he were dreaming, and offered his arm.

***

When Robin came to the kitchen the next morning, Amon couldn't look at her, nor could she look at him. Her eyes remained glued to the floor. Her movements were guarded, efficient, uncomfortable.

So, she remembered. She knew. It was impossible to tell if she knew that he'd listened in (Amon nearly shivered with disgust at the very thought of himself), but he thought it unlikely. She had…other things on her mind, than wondering about who might be standing outside her door. Without meeting his eyes, Robin went to the fridge and opened it, standing there silently without touching anything. Bottles inside the door clinked. She stood there silently, apparently unable to decide. Her posture was taut, nearly trembling with the tension locked inside. The light inside the fridge flickered.

“How are your lessons progressing?” she asked hollowly.

“Fine,” he answered.

“Are you reading your poetry book?”

“Yes.”

They stared at separate points of the room. Robin's attention was apparently entirely taken up by the nondescript items in the refrigerator. Its electric hum filled the room. Amon felt sick. He hadn't been able to eat, that morning, and the coffee in his stomach had turned to battery acid. Robin took a deep, shaky breath, as though having come to an important conclusion. “Do you have a favorite?” she asked, surprising him.

“A favorite what?”

“Poem,” Robin answered, turning to look at him. He looked at her. Her face seemed to have aged overnight—if asked which detail had changed, he couldn't point to a single one, but the entire face seemed different, cast in a new light.

“The Ballad of the Northern Lights,” Amon said dutifully, not wishing to speak and knowing he had no choice, if they were to survive her growth together.

“What's it about?”

“A man…he goes up to the Yukon searching for gold, and finds something else, instead.” Robin shut the refrigerator door, and stood before him, arms crossed. It was his command to speak. “He finds the source of the Northern Lights,” Amon continued. Words began to tumble out of him-anything to avoid speaking and thinking of last night was a boon, at this point. “It's a natural phenomenon, but he doesn't understand it. It has no explanation, and it continues to draw him for reasons he can't comprehend. It's beautiful, and the further north it lures him, the further his mind and body disintegrate. But it doesn't matter to him, until he can find the source, he isn't content. He gives up the gold, in favor of something beautiful that he can't...” Amon realized he'd said too much. The parallels were shockingly, painfully obvious to him. At first, he'd likened those damned sizzling lights in the cold Yukon sky to the Craft itself—unreachable, incapable of controlling, utterly natural in its occurrence and completely untamable and therefore dangerous; a force which could kill him, if he weren't careful. And he had wondered if the quest was worth the peril. What reward, after all, could be worth his ravaged self-composure, his very identity? But now with Robin in the room, another parallel opened up, like a mirror tilted in just the right way that bounced light into an otherwise dark and forgotten corridor. He'd have felt something like embarrassment, if he weren't so thoroughly ashamed already.

Robin pulled up a chair and sat, her chin balanced atop her knees. “And does he ever understand it?”

“No, I don't think so,” Amon answered. “It ruins him.” He sighed. “But…his life was better, for it.”

“Are you sure?” Something had changed in Robin's tone. They were no longer speaking of poetry, and he knew it. He wondered which training it was, Solomon or her new memories, that had taught her how to speak circles around him, trap him with words, coax him to admit truths. With anyone else, this would have irked him—he would have shut down completely. But, he reminded himself, this was only fair. Robin had been naked to him, trusted him. And he'd taken, even stolen, more from her last night than he had any right to ask for. The truth was a small price to pay.

Amon dared to look her in the face. She was watching him with open eyes, older ones. It was only because he'd grown so accustomed to her face that he knew the fear she was hiding. “I'm sure,” he answered.

Robin nodded, silently. Her face was pensive. Rather than speak, Robin wrapped her hand around his coffee cup, and closed her eyes. Amon sensed her Craft light up, something in her sparking like a struck match warm and bright. It brushed the edges of his Craft's awareness, tense and electric. It swam around inside his cup and stirred the contents. A tiny smile softened Robin's features. For a moment, he forgot to hate himself. Robin's eyes opened, verdant, flushed with new life. Their eyes held each other. It occurred to him for the first time that this might be Robin's way of asking for forgiveness. That she in fact may have believed herself to have done wrong, to have offended him. That buried under the Eve of Witches was still someone too shy to apologize directly.

“It should be warmer, now,” Robin ventured.

“Thank you,” Amon said. But he found he could say nothing more. There was no way to appropriately convey what he was feeling, mostly because he couldn't quite understand it, himself. It was better to say nothing. He watched Robin's eyes fall, before she quietly left the kitchen.

***

“It's been a long time since I've used one of these,” Robin said. She balanced the rubber-tipped foil in her hand.

“This is a test of how far your new memories have taken you,” one Elder said. “Buried in the memories of the Witches who precede you are skills that you cannot imagine. But all of them are in some way useful. You may begin to remember how to do things you wouldn't expect—how to play a musical instrument, for example. We are beginning here with a skill that you already have. Only you will know how much it has improved, if at all.”

Robin frowned. “The memories hidden in my subconscious will conflict with my conscious training, in this area,” she said. “I may slow down. It's dangerous.”

“That is a problem you must learn how to solve,” another Elder said. “Picking out the threads of your memories, learning how to listen to them, will be an important skill when you are deciding which Craft to use and how.”

Amon watched ringside with Neville. The old man had decided it was time to take a break after Amon demonstrated an incredible lack of control with a group of mismatched cups and saucers. In the above office, shattered, wet ceramic waited everywhere. Amon saw a thought occur to Robin. “Will I still see the other attack coming, even if it doesn't involve the Craft?”

“It is possible,” a female Elder said carefully behind her Noh mask. “Your new memories seek always to preserve themselves. That is why they live in you, and choose to help you in your ordeals.”

Amon didn't much like the sound of the word ordeals, but he stayed quiet. Robin seemed to be debating something. Finally she sighed, and brought her glasses out of her jacket pocket. Slipping them on, her posture straightened, her shoulders went back. She slipped the jacket off, and stretched, rolled her neck. “I'm ready,” she said.

“Show her in,” one Elder motioned to a Faceless assistant, who was dressed in a similar brown robe, also with a Noh mask. This one, however, wasn't painted: it was completely blank, without defining features. This assistant opened a door to the outside, and ushered in a young girl, perhaps Robin's age—although Robin's age, Amon reminded himself, was now a matter of debate. The other girl marched in, a smug smirk on her face. Amon realized with a creeping mixture of dismay and anticipation that it was the uninjured twin from Robin's first night with the Coven, back for a rematch.

Robin had obviously noticed this as well, and her face did not hide her chagrin. She looked more annoyed than anything else, however. It was a cheap, petty trick for the Elders to pull. She looked the twin up and down. “Might you have something I could tie my hair back with?” she asked.

The twin frowned, her smirk gone. “What?”

“My hair, I'd like to tie it back, during the match.” Robin held out one hand expectantly. The twin appeared completely undone, but she dug one hand into the pocket of her jeans anyway, and found a little hair-tie. Amon noticed, with a tiny prick of bitterness, that it was one of those absurdly ornamental ones, the kinds with little plastic charms on either side, the same as he'd seen Touko wearing, the first time they met. These little charms were red, made in the shape of dice.

“Thank you,” Robin said, as the other girl placed the hair-tie in her palm. Robin's fingers closed around it, and she brought up her hair and began tying it back. Pulling it tight to her liking, Robin took hold of her foil again, and regarded her opponent. She brought up the foil, and Amon saw her muscles settle into a position they obviously remembered from years of training.

“Engard.” The other girl also brought up her foil, and moved to strike first. Robin parried easily, her face concentrated but calm. The match continued that way for a few minutes—academic, cold. Then the twin, aiming for Robin's chest, encountered a bad deflection on Robin's part, and slit open a part of Robin's right arm as Robin ducked to avoid the foil's tip. Robin hissed; Amon's breath tightened in his chest. Not missing a beat, Robin passed the foil into her left hand. Her face was grim. And then, just as Amon remembered that Robin wasn't left handed, she came up from her half-crouch, and lashed out at her opponent.

Gone was the “match.” This was now a fight. Robin's left hand was most definitely the sinister one, uninterested in politeness. It came up and her body followed, backing each advance with a simmering, undaunted intensity. Amon felt his throat go dry. She was backing the other girl up against a wall, their blades crossed low and close to the hilt. Her opponent's blade began to glow as Robin held her there, her mouth a thin line. The light was reflected in her glasses, obscuring her eyes. The blade was heating, hissing, white-hot where Robin's blade touched it—“You bitch!” the other girl cried in exasperation and rage, dropping her blade and making a fist of her burned hand. She snarled and put one hand on Robin's chest. Amon felt the power ripple around them for a split second before Robin sailed into the air, launched toward the opposite wall. She landed roughly on her back, skidding.

“Robin,” Amon said, starting toward her.

Neville held him back with a hand on his shoulder. “She's not finished.”

And indeed, she wasn't. Robin propped herself up on her elbows, panting. Something danced across her features: unfamiliar, mischievous, and in a very dark way that caused Amon's gut to tighten, delighted. Her mouth hung partially open, a smile threatening to break through. He watched as Robin lay back down, rolling her legs up to her chest, and then popped back up on her feet. Her smile now wasn't at all the one he would recognize on Robin's face. It was condescending, smooth, wicked. She threw the sword to one side; it skidded across the floor. Her left hand came up, inviting; her index finger made a slow, clawing, come-hither motion.

Growling, the other girl ran toward Robin, at the same time directing another Craft attack at her. The ground shook briefly beneath their feet. Robin barely noticed, pre-empting further attack by reaching out with one still-bloody fist and clocking the other girl in the eye. The twin stumbled, then blindly head-butted Robin in the stomach, backing her up even further. She advanced again, and Robin whirled just in time to deliver a devastating kick to her chest. Amon had a moment to admire her form; he realized that his pulse was up and his blood warm. Like this, flushed, crackling with power, Robin was exquisitely beautiful. The realization was held suspended in his very blood for a breathless moment while the other girl staggered back, wheezing. Her face was pure murder when it came up again. Robin's was determined. He knew that look. He had a moment of pity for her opponent.

The twin rushed Robin again, and Robin's hand came up to slice through the air. Suddenly, the twin disappeared. He heard a thud and crack, on the ground. Robin stood staring at the floor. Now Amon couldn't be held back; he strode up to Robin only to behold the twin curled and holding a presumably-injured arm, making pained sounds. This in itself was no surprise to Amon. It was how Robin had accomplished it that left him standing there a few feet away from her, wary.

Her opponent had slipped on a patch of black ice.

Robin stared at him. He felt her eyes, and turned. Her face was now itself again—gone was the smug fighter from before. She was breathing heavily, sweating. “Is that what it's like?” she panted.

“I don't know,” Amon answered. “Who were you, at the time?”

Robin's face fell. Or rather, her triumph was extinguished there, replaced by a look of hurt surprise. He recognized this Robin, and instantly regretted it. But the truth was that her powers were coming in fast and furious, dangerous. They were something to be concerned about. And if he was just a little nervous of the changes in her personality, if he felt that this not-child-Robin was just a bit of a stranger, if she was in fact becoming unreachable to him as she slipped away into new power, who could blame him? He was keeping a critical distance, he told himself. Distance was all the more necessary, after last night—when he'd been so disgustingly incapable of maintaining it. Distance would protect him, when she went beyond him and discarded him. Robin looked down at the floor.

“She was left-handed, for one,” Neville said, entering the circle. Faceless attendants were now waiting on the floored twin, bringing her up and ushering her away. “You're normally right-handed, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Robin murmured, her mind obviously elsewhere. “And when I kicked her…” She faced Neville. “I don't know how I knew to do that,” she said.

“The Arcanum is a powerful thing,” one Elder said, stepping forward. “You must not allow it to gain control of the majority of your consciousness. However, it will do anything it can to protect itself, and, therefore, you. The souls of those who made your memories wish to survive, in you.”

“They are capable of taking over,” another Elder warned. “In fact, it is only because you are training, giving them a safe path, that they have not dominated you.”

“They weren't doing anything like this, before,” Robin reminded him sharply.

“You had not taken up your role as the Eve of Witches, before,” Neville said. “The Arcanum knows to hide itself until it is needed. Otherwise the vessel may break.”

“But the Arcanum is your best tool for defeating Solomon,” another Elder reminded Robin. “Where other Witches have failed, you will succeed. You alone have this knowledge. You alone can bring peace for Witches.”

“End the war. End the killing,” another intoned.

“And then pass your gift on,” still yet another said. “Your children will all be Witches; some of the finest Witches on Earth-”

The mention of her possible children seemed to snap Robin out of her abstraction. She silenced the Elders with a look. Then her gaze landed on Amon. “We're going home,” she said. “I've done enough, for today.” Amon nodded, and moved toward the door.

In the car, Robin curled her knees up to her chest. “They're my children,” she whispered fiercely. “Mine.”

Amon was suddenly and bitterly reminded of Neville's words of his mother: She loved you, Amon. As though such a thing could ever be true. As though his mother could ever feel for him what he saw written all over Robin's face, for a brood she had yet to conceive. He grimaced at the very thought of it, and turned the key in the ignition.

***

Margarethe was by and large disappointed by the contents of the storage facility where Solomon had locked Amon Nagira's last known possessions. They did in fact offer a few clues about the man, but none about where he might be hiding. There was a complete collection of textbooks from his training days as a Hunter—young Mr. Nagira was not one to sell back his books; he might need them, someday. Not that there was a huge market for the selling back of Solomon literature, anyway. One couldn't simply stop in at the local used bookshop and trade them back. Not if one wished to remain alive, at least. But unlike many regional-level Hunters, who kept their books in boxes labeled “training,” Amon kept his out in the open. He might need to reference something, after all. It was rather intriguing for Margarethe to imagine that her prey actually had a brain, that he wasn't merely a muscle-Hunter. Because they'd been packed away, Margarethe could not guess at the original order of his books on the shelves. She had no way of knowing which topics were most important to her quarry. But being among his personal debris, his ephemera, had given her a better sense of the man.

She ordered a Sapporo and katsu, and watched Kobari, referred to by other members of her staff as “tenchou,” walk away to place the order. She never heard from any of the kitchen staff when the doors swung open to let Kobari through. They were surprisingly quiet. She continued ruminating on Amon Nagira. There were no truly personal effects. No photographs. There was an address book, full of business cards. Mostly the cards belonged to some of the more reputable weapons dealers in Tokyo, as well as a few private investigators, two dry cleaners, one physician, one dentist, one barber, and a small handful of takeout restaurants. This address book was now in Margarethe's possession; she intended to follow up each of these leads.

She contemplated how to go about this without the other Hunters to assist her in the effort, as she went to the restroom and washed her hands before the meal. It was going to be difficult, slow going without them. They most certainly did not want to help, and they had other cases to work. In fact it was only because they had done so well in their other cases, without incidences of injury or other extra-regulatory activity that Margarethe was allowed to continue in her search for Amon Nagira. Were the other members of the STN-J team not behaving so very well, she would have endured some kind of reprimand by now for her little hobby.

When Margarethe returned to her table, her food was waiting. The planner was open where she had left it in the takeout section, but one of the business cards was flipped over and re-inserted into its transparent plastic slot. “Tomorrow night, nine pm,” it read, and gave an address that Margarethe immediately recognized as Walled City.

Casting her eyes about the restaurant, Margarethe realized she was alone. Even Kobari was gone, having disappeared somewhere behind doors marked “employees only.” There were no other patrons, either, not at this hour somewhere between family eating and the late suppers of the young and unattached. There was only Margarethe, and the card, covered in neat capitals written in deep blue ink, and the piped-in piano music streaming from nowhere visible.

***

Robin was nearly silent since her “match” with the twin, days earlier. Amon was content to let it pass—he had poetry to read, after all, and water to freeze. His latest homework assignment was to try freezing water in motion, as from a faucet. “All things are constantly in motion,” Neville had reminded him. “It may not be visible to the naked eye, but the particulate and atomic matter of all things is constantly in movement. Your Craft is one that slows down that motion.”

The distance between them now felt much the same as it did when he'd first begun working with her, all those months ago. They drove, ate, and moved in silence. So it was when they were both told at the end of Robin's lessons that they were being moved to another location, both answered with merely a nod, and began walking.

They were flanked by a retinue of the faceless attendants, crossing through rainy night streets in the worst part of Tokyo, when everything fell apart.

***

“That's odd,” Miho said the next evening. She put down her communicator in its jack within the car, and turned to Sakaki. His eyebrows were raised. “Miss Bonn just called for help, in the Walled City.”

"She called for help?" His key turned in the ignition. “This, I gotta see.”

Miho stopped him with a hand on his arm. “If Kobari's right, do we know what we're doing?”

Sakaki frowned. He seemed to weigh the matter. Then he touched Miho's gloved hand with one of his bare ones, and began tugging the glove off. When it was gone, he tossed it aside, and placed his palm over Miho's. “You tell me,” he said.

***

“Shouldn't I stay here and interface with Tokyo PD?” Michael asked, already opening channels with regional authorities as he listened to Margarethe's voice in his ear. Her voice was tinny through the headset.

“No, no, this should be cleared up soon enough, and is unquestionably within our jurisdiction,” the German Hunter answered in clipped tones. “I think it is a good idea for you to come out and view how we do things on-site. You've had little experience in the area, if my memory serves, and watching events unfold could help you better assist the others on the team.”

“Okay,” Michael answered dumbly, getting a bad feeling and unsure as to why. For as long as he'd been “caged” within the walls of Ravens' Flat, he liked the routine. He at least knew where he was, and what his role was to play. That was more than a great deal of the world could say about itself. Still, he grabbed his coat, and an STN-J transport, giving the lone valet something to do. In the car, watching a rainy Tokyo blur past under feverish mauve clouds, he told himself to stop worrying.

***

Doujima was engaged in one of her favorite activities, that being watching Nagira undress before brushing his teeth, when the call came. She half-jumped, half-rolled off the bed, one foot snagging in the sheets as she went, tripping her up. She landed on her knees and elbows with a loud “fuck!” From there it was a crawl across the floor to her purse, where she fished out the communicator from a twisted position on her back. “Hello?” she asked.

Margarethe merely gave the instructions, with no time for arguments before she rang off. Doujima's thumb found the proper button, and soon she too was faced with silence.

“You okay?” Nagira asked, dressed in shorts and nothing else, peppermint-scented foam still congealing around his mouth. His eyes said amusement, but his voice betrayed real concern. Her fall must have sounded a little more than accidental.

“Margarethe knows,” Doujima said. “She's calling us all into the Walled City. She must be on to something.”

Nagira's face attained a similar blankness as his brother's as he digested the new information. He walked purposefully into the bathroom, and spat decisively, as though the foam were the real source of the problem. When he returned, he said, “I'm coming with you.”

From her position on the floor, Doujima reached out a hand, and closed it around Nagira's bare ankle. “I'm scared.”

“I know.” He offered a hand, and pulled her up. “Me too, kiddo.”

***

“Where is Miss Bonn's car…” Sakaki murmured to himself as he found the proper address. He finally found his superior's vehicle, and she standing beside it.

“I want you to park, and then go one street up, then make a left. Our game will be in this little square, soon enough.”

“Understood,” Sakaki said, and parked the car. Miho went with him.

***

“Drop me here,” Nagira said suddenly. “I'll follow you from here on in. But it would be better for all of us if I were here just to observe.” He patted his shoulder holster. “For the time being, anyway,” he added.

Doujima turned to him, eyes wide. “I don't want to do this alone,” she admitted, with some difficulty.

“Who said anything about alone?” Nagira asked with brittle cheer. “I'll be right with you. You just won't see me.” He squeezed her hand, and then vanished from the vehicle.

***

There was a flash of light.

It was merely the sudden and brilliant exposure of the night to a pair of headlamps, nothing more. But it blinded them briefly, and when Amon opened his eyes again, there was figure framed against the light. Rain falling above the light became a shower of sparks. The figure reached for a pocket. There was a ripple of power as the Faceless attendants brought up different shields, protecting Robin and Amon and making a tight circle around them. But by now Amon's gun was in his hand.

The figure was also holding a gun, and had it trained at the center of the Faceless' circle, right where Amon and Robin waited. As one, groups of trashcans took to the sky, and threw themselves at the quickly-weakening shield of the Faceless. “It's not me,” Robin whispered.

“Do not retaliate until absolutely necessary,” Amon murmured.

Trashcans and their contents battered against the shield. Old food and paper slid down the barrier, oddly suspended in midair above their heads. As the shield weakened, the objects trembled in the air. Amon noticed the rain slicking down the dome in shaking droplets. Then the shots began.

One by one, the Faceless fell, hit in the chest or stomach. They bent double, and with them went their shields. Amon recognized the effects of the Witch killer bullets immediately. He felt Robin's shield burst into life around them, warm and dry. Falling rain sizzled into steam around them. Her hand fumbled in a jacket pocket, searching for her glasses. The shield trembled as she brought them to her face, and changed focus slightly. Amon could feel the shield gain strength with the addition of the accessory—he immediately felt more secure.

“If the barrier falls, use your arrows,” Robin said, her voice cold and disembodied. Her tactician face was on; he barely knew it. But whatever ancient memory that whispered into her mind's ear was interested in their survival—it was a shared interest.

“Understood,” Amon said grimly.

Again, objects from the alley came at them, with renewed intensity. Robin burst some of them into flame, and when they didn't cease their advance, she redirected the missiles at the enemy's vehicle. At this, the bullets were used again. Amon felt a moment of hollow, squeezing fear and revulsion at their use—the memory of their purpose, and his own despicable use of them, was as unstoppable as the projectiles themselves. Robin held the bullets in air, and they cooked on her shield, hissing and melting as the Orbo bullets used on her instructor Sastre had done.

“Robin…” a voice to their left said.

Amon turned, and saw Doujima, her eyes sad and regretful, but filled with wonder at the power displayed before her. Sick dread washed through him. If Doujima was here, so was the entire team. A movement to his right bore this out; Michael stepped out from the shadows like a man in a dream, his glasses for once discarded. They hung in one hand, where he twisted them nervously. He looked younger, without them. Michael's eyes flicked to Amon, narrow and appalled at his former superior's betrayal.

“You bastard,” Michael accused, on the edge of tears. Rain splashed above them while it soaked the others. His glare shifted focus, to the still-hidden one with the gun. “And you…” he snarled. “You…”

“Hate me all you like, if it makes this moment easier, Michael,” the Witch Hunter said, stepping forward slowly, unwittingly echoing something Neville had said. Amon suddenly had a momentary pang of unexpected nostalgia for the old office—anything, even putting up with the old prick, had to be easier than this.

“My name is Margarethe Bonn, with the STN-J,” the Hunter said in clear, authoritative tones, gun still up. “I am here to arrest Amon Nagira, and return him to Solomon for standard debriefing.”

Around them, the alley windows on the Walled City apartments burst and shattered as one, raining glass to the street below. He heard voices behind them yelp with surprise, and immediately identified them as Sakaki and Karasuma. “We're surrounded,” Amon said.

“They're not taking you,” Robin said, her voice quiet, but fierce. Her body trembled. She was sweating. The burning pinpoints of the mid-air bullets glittered in the surface of her glasses.

He wanted to say that he shouldn't be her primary focus of attention—in the balance, her life outweighed his, always had, and always would. But at the moment he was utterly and damnably incapable of doing his job. Whatever shield he could manage would never stand against Witch killer bullets. He was powerless. It sickened him.

“Let me go,” he said. “Run.” He began to move. As one, each bullet cooking on the shield burst its shell casing and became a bright, lethal star.

“No!” Robin's hands were fists. She was shuddering—not, he realized, with the effort of maintaining the shield, but of keeping it under control, not lashing out. Something inside her was obviously pleading to end the problem, kill the Hunter. And the convent girl in Robin, his Robin, the one who still believed that a loving God somewhere had breathed a sacred gift of life into humanity, bent and twisted under the weight of her decision and its implications for her soul. Sweat and tears rolled down her face. It was as the cremation poem said: a promise made is a debt unpaid. And he had made a promise.

“You're not a murderer,” he said softly, repeating his words of many nights ago. And then he began walking.

“Please…” Robin whispered behind him. “Not again…Amon…”

He reached the edge of her barrier. His mouth opened to frame the words he didn't know and couldn't understand, he drew breath—and the Hunter's vehicle opened. Another figure stepped out, nearly stumbling. “Amon!” she called, and ran to him.

“Touko,” he said, voice and spirit hollow. One by one, hissing shell casings fell to the ground, clinking metal on the street. Rain fell into his hair. Robin's wall had finally fallen.