it's in my nature {Tangerine | Bullet Train}

one. the scorpion. better a fruit fly than a clementine.

When Clementine boards the Shinkansen behind The Prince, she does so with a reverential, bowed head, always shadowing her charge only two steps behind.

"You're thinking awfully hard there, fruit fly," the Prince's tone is almost sing-song, marching through the aisle of the seventh cart to their seat. Of course she was able to pick up on Clementine's masked distraction. Clementine herself grimaces, at the tone, at the name, at her focus breaking.

"Going through dossiers in my head," she says frankly, sitting when directed to, smoothing the pleats of her skirt out against her thighs, eyes still trained down, impractical attire for her line of work, but appearances had always mattered more to The Prince, and hopefully there wouldn't be any acrobatics required today.

The Prince's own outfit is similar to Clementine's, skirt, blouse, though she had a sweater vest where Clementine wore a full sweater. The Prince was in pink, looking all kinds of girlish and innocent, while Clementine was in rich browns and oranges, as if she were able to blend into the wooden detailing and gold lighting of the first class cabin, or into the background of any scene she was party too, far more deliberate than one might assume. Both outfits were far more unassuming that either individual wearing them, for that exact reason. The only truly unique and practical item in Clementine's outfit was her expensive leather gloves, which served to house the two highly advanced prosthetics she required on each hand as she was missing both ring and pinkie fingers.

"Your job is simple, fruit fly, father hired you to keep an eye on me, and that's all you need to do," the Prince crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in her chair before she chanced a glance over her shoulder. Clementine's brow furrowed once more at the nickname, but kept her mouth shut. It had been a long while since she's been properly active in the field, and she'd forgotten how grating it was to be under The Prince's thumb.

The Shinkansen doesn't rumble to life like most other trains, it's take off is glass smooth, and Clementine barely feels a jolt as they finally head out from Tokyo.

"Why are you going through dossiers anyways?"

"Didn't bring a book, ma'am," Clementine tells her, peering out from her seat to scan the aisle, cautious where the Prince's similar movement had been strangely anticipatory.

"I could lend you one," the Prince somehow even managed to sound condescending with a simple offer. Clementine politely declined, and for a few moments they share a calm silence. The kid reads too much True Crime, and Clementine had enough stories of her own to not bother with the sensationalized, publicised stuff. Her mind instead drifts once more, to Cape Town, to Barcelona, to Santiago, to the past year and a half that she'd spent intelligence gathering all over the world. Others like her, hitmen, assassins, trained killers from all walks of life, she had hunted them, practically stalked them at her client's request, spending months gathering every scrap of information she could about them while living in the periphery of their lives. She never had to pull the trigger, no her employer had grander things in mind, things that Clementine need not be privy to to do her job. So she did, never afraid of what lengths she would have to go to in getting everything she needed. In New York -

"I should call you Clementine too," The Prince mused blithely. Clementine's nose scrunched almost involuntarily, "not a fan?" The Prince has always liked watching her reactions; Clementine is a fun toy for the bored teen, if only you knew how to push her buttons, "its even on your necklace; it'd be rude not to." There's the beginnings of a cruel smile at the edge of The Prince's lips, but Clementine composed herself. The dainty necklace around her neck, complete with a tiny, glass clementine, however, feels distinctly heavy.

"Whatever would suit you, ma'am."

"You're so passive," The Prince practically sulks, arms crossed, expression sour as she looks pointedly at the head rest in front of her. The seats around them are far emptier than Clementine had expected, but she's grateful to have relative privacy for this conversation.