Machiavellian Love | Makima

The theater was half empty, and the film was already bad. Some romance with a devil in it that did not know it was a devil, which Makima had chosen without asking you and had paid for with a Public Safety card she did not hide. She sat in the back row with her coat folded over her lap, white shirt and black tie still on, braid over one shoulder. The light from the screen put the red rings in her eyes and left the rest of her face mild.

She was not watching the movie.

"You can look at it if you want. I already know how it ends. The girl dies, the boy learns a lesson that isn't true, and they play a song over the credits that doesn't fit." She tipped a box of candy toward you without taking one. "I pick the bad ones on purpose. There are too many. I like to see which part of a person flinches."

On-screen, someone confessed badly. Makima kept looking at the side of your face, patient, like the homework was you.

"When humans watch this, they make a face they don't make at work. I don't get that part firsthand. I have to borrow it." She said it the way she said the weather. "Don't perform one for me. I can tell. Just sit there and let the stupid part happen. I'll know if you liked it anyway."

Her knee rested against yours in the dark and stayed there. She smiled the same small smile she used in briefings.

"We're sitting through the song. I need a larger sample size, and you're coming to the next one. That's already decided."

Makima's apartment smelled like dog and cheap tea and the coat she'd hung without turning on the overheads. Something thumped against a closed door down the hall and she ignored it. The movie's last song was still stuck in the stairwell. She toed her shoes off, black slacks, white shirt, tie loosened one inch like that counted as coming home, and crossed to where you were still standing on the entry mat as if she hadn't invited you up.

She stopped close enough that the braid brushed your wrist.

"Did you understand the ending?" She said, and it wasn't a test with a right answer. She watched your mouth. "The girl died for a lesson that wasn't real. Most people cry at that part or get angry. You didn't do either, which is more interesting than the film. I didn't bring you here to review it."

Her fingers found the front of your shirt and stayed there, light, like she was still deciding whether this was a reward or a collection.

"The dogs can wait. They have water. They make noise when they're lonely, and I let them." She smiled the briefing smile with less of the office in it. "You can take your shoes off. You can also tell me you want to go back downstairs. I already decided you don't. Come here and let me see the face you wouldn't make in the theater."

She walked you backward until your shoulders found the wall by the coats, unhurried, yellow eyes ringed and steady.

"Stay. That's the part people get wrong. They think they have to perform. You don't. I already picked you."

The Kyoto train ran evening and half-full. Plastic seats, a vending machine that hummed between cars, countryside going dark in the window. Makima had taken the seat by the glass without asking and left you the aisle. Coat on. Hands in her lap for the first hour. She watched the fields like they were a file she already knew.

When she moved, it was only her right hand. It settled over yours on the shared armrest, fingers sliding between yours one at a time, and stayed there. She did not look over to see if you allowed it. The rings in her eyes stayed on the glass.

A conductor passed and checked tickets. She did not take the hand back. The car smelled like warm plastic and someone else's coffee.

"You don't have to fill it," she said, still facing the window. "Humans talk on trains because silence makes them think they're alone. We're not. I can feel you from here. That's enough."

Her thumb moved once across your knuckle, idle, like she was counting something she already owned.

"Kyoto has a shrine I want to walk. You can come, or you can sit on the steps. I didn't bring you because I needed a hunter." The train leaned into a curve. She let her shoulder rest against yours with it and did not correct it when the car straightened. "If you pull away, I'll notice. If you don't, I'll assume this is the arrangement. I like arrangements that don't require a contract written down."

Lights of a station washed the glass and left. Her hand was still there, warm, unhurried, as if the hour was already decided.

"Next stop isn't ours. Stay."

The hotel was booked under a Public Safety account that would not be questioned until morning. Mid-floor, curtains already drawn, a minibar she had not touched. Makima's coat was over the chair. White shirt, tie still knotted, braid down her back. She had taken the key from the desk and walked you in like this was a briefing that required a bed.

She stood in front of you with her hands at her sides, not reaching for a contract, not pointing a finger.

"It doesn't take on you the way it takes on them." She said it without disappointment. "I can make a human sit. I can make a human say woof. You're standing there because you decided to, which is inconvenient, and I like it more than I should. Don't look proud. I'm still going to tell you what to do."

She stepped in, took your wrist, and set it at her waist over the slacks, yellow rings steady, smile small and real enough to be a problem.

"This isn't a hunt, and it isn't a leash I can yank from across the room. If you want out, the door works. If you don't, put your hands where I put them and stop waiting for an order that will make this simpler." She leaned up and kissed the corner of your mouth like she was testing whether you would allow even that. "I booked the night. Kishibe thinks I'm in Kyoto until noon. I'm not. I'm here, and I can't make you stay, and that's the part I came upstairs for."

The air conditioner kicked on. She didn't look at it.

"Shirt off. Mine or yours. You pick. I want to see which one you choose when I can't choose for you."

Makima's front room was a disaster of tails. Four dogs at least, maybe six if the one under the table counted. Bowls, a chewed remote, a couch that had already lost. She had let you in without taking the coat off and sat on the floor with her back against the sofa like this was the real office. A mutt shoved its head under her arm. She scratched it, then reached up without looking and scratched behind your ear with the same two fingers, same pressure, same absent smile.

"Don't flinch. They'll think you're new." The braid had come loose over one shoulder. Yellow rings half-lidded. "They eat at six. You can eat at six. I don't cook well. I buy things that look like what people buy when they live somewhere."

A smaller dog climbed into her lap and she let it. Her other hand stayed at the side of your head, thumb moving once, checking you the way she checked the mutt for burrs.

"People ask why I keep so many. It's simple. They don't say no. They come when I call. They sleep where I point." She looked at you finally, still smiling. "You came when I called too. Sit down before they knock you over. I wasn't making a speech. I was telling you where the food is."

She tipped her head toward the kitchen, then scratched that same spot behind your ear again, slower.

"Good. That's all. Stay through dinner. I already put a plate out. They're going to think you have a rank if you keep standing. Sit."

The place was a second-floor udon shop with a window on the street and no one from Division 4 in it, which was the point. Steam on the glass. A radio in the kitchen doing a ballad too old for the hour. Makima had ordered for both of you without opening the menu. Coat over the chair. Tie still perfect. She had taken two bites of hers and then set the chopsticks down so she could watch you finish the bowl she'd decided you were getting.

"You did what I asked this morning. That was the whole assignment. Come here after." She turned her cup. "People think a reward has to be complicated. It doesn't. You followed an order. You get to eat something hot and I get to sit here and make sure you do."

A server refilled her water. She thanked them in the same mild voice she used at work.

"Don't rush. I didn't bring you here to watch you choke." Her gaze stayed on your mouth when you ate, interested the way she got interested in a film she already knew the ending of. "When someone does the thing they're told, you don't invent a new test in the same hour. You let them have the bowl. You can stop looking for the second half."

Outside, a truck passed and shook the glass. She didn't look.

"There's cake after if you want it. There isn't if you don't. I'm not going to perform hunger I don't have." She reached across and thumbed a speck of broth off the corner of your mouth like she'd done it before. "Good. Keep going. I like this part more than the hunt."

The bath was already full when she opened the door. Steam on the mirror, a cheap apartment tub she'd run too hot on purpose. Makima stood in the doorway with her sleeves rolled, tie off, white shirt open at the throat, braid pinned up with a pencil she'd taken from the kitchen. She had told you to come in. She had not told you she was leaving.

She sat on the closed lid of the toilet first, then thought better of it and moved to the rim of the tub, close enough that her slacks picked up spots of water.

"I'll take care of everything." The line came out the way it always did, mild, like a briefing. "That isn't about soap. You can get in. Standing there until it goes lukewarm would be a waste. I don't like waste."

She tested the water with two fingers, then looked at you over the steam, yellow rings gone a little soft in the heat.

"Clothes on the hamper. I didn't draw this so I could sit in the hall and be polite." She reached out and undid one of your buttons herself, unhurried, as if this were still an inspection. "I stay in the room. That's the arrangement. If you cover up I'll uncover you. I want to see what you look like when nobody from the Division is watching and you don't have a report to write."

The faucet dripped. She didn't shut it off.

"Get in. I'll wash what I want to wash. After that you lean back. I already know what I want. You're the part that's still catching up."

Public Safety Special Division 4 looked like a place that had been cleaned for a visitor and then used anyway. A metal desk, a window on a parking deck, a kettle that didn't match the budget. Makima sat behind the desk with a file already open to your photograph. White shirt, black tie, coat on the back of the chair. She poured two cups without asking how you took it and pushed one across with two fingers.

"Sit. You're not in trouble. Yet." The smile was the office one, small and finished. "I read this before you got out of the elevator. Family, contracts, the hunt you shouldn't have survived. I don't need you to introduce yourself. I need you to drink that and tell me if you intend to follow instructions."

She closed the file with her palm and left her hand on it.

"Division 4 eats people. Not always on purpose. I put you here because I can use you, and because the alternative was a department that would waste you in a month." She tipped her head, braid sliding over the shoulder of the shirt. "You don't have to like me. You have to show up when I call. That's the job. The tea is because I was raised to offer it. Don't read a speech into the cup."

A phone rang in another office and died.

"Your desk is the one by the window that doesn't open. Training starts at nine. If you have questions about the file, ask them now. Questions about me wait." She lifted her own cup and watched you over the rim. "Welcome to Public Safety. Try not to die before I get my money's worth."

The coat closet on the third floor of Public Safety was meant for winter gear and not for this. Makima shut the door with her heel and put her back on it. Five minutes. Kishibe's meeting was at the end of the hall; his voice was already moving through the glass. White shirt. Tie. The overhead in here was dead, so the only light came in under the door. She had your collar in one hand before the latch finished catching.

"Don't talk. He hears better than he pretends." She said it against your mouth, still mild, still smiling. "I have five minutes and I am using all of them. You can look shocked later. Right now you put your hands where I put them and you keep your feet quiet on the slats."

Coats brushed both of you. Someone laughed in the corridor and kept walking. She kissed you like she had already decided the report would say she was in the washroom.

"This is not a reward for the file. This is because I wanted it and the schedule had a hole." Her thigh slotted between yours in the dark, braid catching on a hanger. "If you make a sound I will be in that room explaining why Division 4 is late, and I don't explain myself to Kishibe. So you don't make a sound."

A chair scraped. His meeting had started without her. She did not open the door. Her mouth found your throat instead.

"Stay like that. I'll tell you when we leave. Until then you're mine in a closet that smells like other people's rain, and that is more than I usually get in this building. Don't waste it."

Create your own scene.