Kitsune_draft 1

Chapter 1 (working draft)

It was a cute nickname. "Kitsune."

Initially playful in nature, the name carried a new weight, a greater meaning, as she (like others) flitted closer to the depths of hell. "Kitsune": A beast that, despite its impeccable ability to fit into human society and superior intelligence, was and would forever be inferior to humans.

A mistake. A lapse in judgement. It was perfectly normal and perhaps a sign of one's own humanity. But one mistake grew into a House of Cards ready to collapse at any misstep. The ramifications of those sins—friends turned to enemies; friends turned to rotten corpses—was something she could not bear. The only proof she had of those memories were a handful of polaroid exposures that filled her wallet. As the reason they died, as the reason they despised her, she lacked the courage to look at the photos—to remember what she did.

"Kitsune": Her sins separated her from the world of humans. There was only one way to return.

Her conclusion—only through reprimanding latent criminals, through erecting true justice, could she reclaim her disappearing ties to a world that rejected her. Only through bringing the justice her friends deserved could she receive any chance at redemption.

Until both of her beloved friends are avenged, "Kitsune" will remain alone—like a crazed Bodhisattva who somehow strayed from the path to enlightenment in trying to save everyone.

1

"Another dream..."

In her usual morning routine, she had fallen asleep during her commute. She checked her watch and surroundings. 7:03 am. Chatter from usual passengers on the ferry and the outline of the verdant landscape against the cerulean waters of the Puget Sound grounded her back in reality. The realm of dreams with its uncanny ability to torment her with suppressed memories had no bearing on her now.

If only.

She had little more than a half hour to prepare for arrival on the base. Work as an analyst at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service (better known as NCIS) was far less glamorous than she anticipated—slaving over lines of code to identify potential attacks on naval infrastructure for eight hours, five days per week, became little more than a source of income and a valuable facet for otherwise inaccessible information. And, while she considered it less pressing than her other line of work, appearances –in the form of a crisp, unblemished white collar shirt complimented by a black pencil skirt free from lint and straight, ebony hair barely above her shoulders—meant everything. It was nothing short of a stroke of luck that the NCIS even considered her in its cyber terrorism department. The background check, the notoriously invasive SF-86 and associated lifestyle polygraph, surely should have nailed the coffin on her dream career with the branch of the military that, quite frankly, gave her family an opportunity to succeed in the United States.

The polygraph, albeit grueling for every candidate lucky enough to receive consideration for employment, was particularly painful. Three hours of personal questions—inquiries of the skeletons she intended to bury rather than acknowledge in her closet. The questions, common subjects of her frequent memories, continue to haunt her—Have you committed a crime that, if caught, you would have been arrested for? Do you have family involved in illegal drug transactions? How frequently do you consume alcohol monthly? Weekly? Daily? How often do you watch pornography on the internet weekly? Have you ever had sex in public? In the workplace? With a superior? Have you distributed pornographic material in exchange for cash?

The cold, bitter fangs of reality gnawed at her flesh as she reluctantly answered yes to the most damning questions. Yet, despite her deviant behavior (and less than savory intentions), the agency took her on. Maybe the years she spent pouring over computer languages to atone for past mistakes was why she was accepted but left to her own devices alone in the SCIF. Human contact kept to a minimum. Probably for the best.

Quiet and efficient, no one questioned her or could even connect her alias to her identity: the whimsical vigilante, "kitsune." Surely, the self-proclaimed "hero" that brought sexual predators, serial killers, and other criminals to "justice" in lieu of the Seattle Police Department. Surely, "kitsune" was nothing more than a thrill-seeker who missed the short-lived tenure of the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone (CHAP) that would die out in a few months. The press would tire of printing the same masked fool, right?

Kitsune.

Was it true justice she sought? Or something darker, more selfish, like stocking good karma to absolve her of past sins? The answer—for someone who aspired to be a humanitarian before she could string together coherent sentences—was ambiguous.

The blare of the ferry's horn woke her from thoughts (the daydreams themselves still a daily habit). And, as they did five days of every week, the shores of Bremerton welcomed her. A routine that she initially dreaded upon reluctance to abandon the homey Seattle apartment she resided in since starting college five years ago was now, quite oddly, comforting.

Regardless, the commute from Seattle to the field office in Silverdale, despite being a chore, was imperative for her night gig. Her quiet Queen Anne apartment was isolated enough from the pandemonium of post-CHAP Capitol Hill to deny any relation yet close enough to feasibly drive or take public transit to the action.