Cut From A Tattered Cloth

Interlude

         *Four months later*

A cold wind blew at the Capitol City East Aeroport. Unlike its twin port on the west side, the East Aeroport was nestled on the outskirts of the city, so well concealed that most of the population didn't know it existed. This made it ideal for the high-class clientele that frequented it, as it allowed for more privacy.

A man laid on his stomach on the roof of the air traffic control tower, a good one-hundred meters away from where his mark would be. He stifled a yawn, watching as the landing crew tugged the cords of her dirigible, pulling it to the ground. .

He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. He wasn't used to this—the thrill that came before killing. For him, killing was part of his job, something he did with the same level of anyone else working a dead–end job. But this...this was different.

The door to the airship hissed open and a walkway was wheeled up to it. The man felt a tingle run down his spine. He'd been waiting for this moment for two years. Two long years of careful planning and preparation, all of it leading up to this moment. If he botched this, all of that would've been for nothing.

He kept his scope trained on the open door, scanning the faces that passed through his reticle. The first was a flight stewardess, dressed in the trademark navy blue cardigan and matching skirt reserved for flights sponsored by the Zaramian government. Her blonde hair was swept up into an elegant knot, and she was talking over her shoulder to the person behind her.

The man watched her go, uninterested. When another Zaramian woman appeared in his reticle, he rolled his eyes. He had no interest in their plain features and commitment to mediocrity. Then he heard it, the sweet sound of the beautiful mother tongue.

"Tsuchiya-san, ochitsuite kudasai." Tsuchiya-san, please calm down.

Excitement pricked the man's heart and seemed to warm up his insides. What he wouldn't give to be fully immersed in that beautiful language—to never have the coarse words of Zaram pierce his ears again.

A third woman came into his reticle, this one making his sudden surge of emotion all the harder to control. A silver streak stood out in the silken black of her hair. It cascaded down her back like a waterfall. The man watched her bow apologetically to the flight stewardesses as she came down the walkway. She ushered out a team of four crewmen lugging what looked like an enormous glass box. The man would guess it was at least six feet high and four feet wide. Inside was a girl wearing eyeglasses and a high ponytail. Her hands and feet were completely covered by thick black shackles. Smoke leaked from the matching muzzle strapped to her face as she screamed muffled words to the other woman.

The girl with the long hair shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Tsuchiya-san," she said, "but you are fire-born, and airships are flammable. Of course they would want to take precautions with you."

The girl in the box—Tsuchiya-san—screamed something in response. The other girl gave a nervous laugh.

"Well, to be fair, you have been known to lose your temper."

When they had cleared the walkway, the four crewmen pushing the glass case each pulled out a key. One inserted his key into the glass box and the front fell allowing the girl inside to stagger out. Two men undid the shackles on her hands and feet. The fourth went to unlock her muzzle, but once her hands were free she shoved him aside and ripped it off. Flames belched out of her mouth and shot out of her fists as she threw her arms out and screamed.

"MENDOKUSANAAAA! KONO KUNI!"

Flight stewardesses and crewmen alike scattered before her. They screamed and cowered. A few sent prayers up to the Holy Mages. All of them were terrified at the sight of magic that didn't have to be manufactured.