Tapas for Two

Alvar had come through spectacularly, though Otto suspected the elderly butler hadn’t been altogether too happy with him when he had first heard what had happened to his old weapon. They had spoken briefly on the phone once Otto had returned to Japan—it had mostly been Otto outlining his needs and preferences and Alvar providing taciturn silence interrupted only by the odd question or comment. Not long after, an ungainly package had arrived at the Park Hyatt Tokyo’s front desk for Otto, who had brought it up to the room and unpacked an impact-resistant plastic case. It managed, somehow, to look sinister despite being nondescript, like something a villain would have his henchmen carry around for him. Otto rather liked it.

He had liked what was inside even more. True to his word, Alvar had picked out two new toys for Otto, and they lay heavily in the foam cut-outs of the case like the last words in an argument. There was a letter, hand-written, lying on top and Otto instantly recognized it as the old Finn’s handwriting. He picked it up, opened it, and was pleased to see that whatever disappointment Alvar had expressed on the phone had evaporated in the days that followed. There was an enthusiasm in the letter muted only by the butler’s rather dry sense of humor and antiquated vocabulary. When it came to his work, he was a passionate man.

Otto looked back down at the contents of the case and picked up the first of the two pistols that lay there. It was the same model as the one Berlin police had confiscated, but a slew of modern touches were quite readily apparent. Ergonomics on this new and improved edition were greatly improved, but there was still the same comfortable familiarity of the SIG controls. The barrel, he noticed, was threaded, and there was a suppressor embedded in the foam just above the cutout for the gun itself. Very nice, he thought. He had requested a smaller caliber and that was precisely what he had received: the etched markings on the side of the chamber now read 9MM PARA. It had boiled down to higher capacity and less recoil—missing one or two shots mattered less now, and would also happen less. Quantity over quality, he supposed was one way you could put it.

The other pistol that lay in the case, however, was the direct opposite. Otto had seen the big, blocky Sphinx guns on numerous occasions before, but he had never owned one, and as he replaced the SIG and pulled the Sphinx free, the heft and build quality of it somehow managed to make even the P229 look like a plastic imitation piece. Tolerances here were tighter than he had ever seen in any firearm, and the dull gunmetal sheen of the milled frame and slide went very well with the wood grip paneling. It was an objet d’art more than it was a firearm, and yet—judging by the caliber—this was a monster of a pistol. The designation discreetly read 10AUTO and Otto fingered one of the bullets, the phrase hand-cannon instantly leaping to mind. With something of this size, it didn’t matter if he missed—if such a thing was even possible with a firearm like this. He would only have to hit once. Somewhere on the bedside table, his phone buzzed, but he paid it no mind; he was far too busy admiring Alvar’s handiwork. He had mentioned in the letter that this was a modified .40 S&W rechambered in its big brother cartridge, but Otto could barely tell. Alvar’s was a master of his craft, after all, and vaguely Otto wondered if he had an inside line with the people at Sphinx.

He reluctantly put the pistol back into its place, brushing his fingers along the surface of it longingly, then got up to check his phone. When he saw who it had been, the smile he had been wearing ever since he first opened the gun case widened ever so slightly.

This was turning into a very good day.

In the end, he had decided to take the SIG, the compact frame easily slipping into his jeans as usual. The abstract feeling of nakedness that had hung around him since his return to Japan from Germany evaporated instantly, and he sighed with contentment as he slipped on the suit jacket and stepped out of the hotel room, everything feeling just the way it was supposed to.

It was a short walk to the place they had decided to meet at (well, Sasha had decided, but that was fine by him), and he arrived first, catching more than his fair share of fascinated looks from the people who passed him in the busy street. His height, his complexion, his hair color, his eye color—pretty much everything about him set him apart from the Japanese that thronged about him, and it was—judging by the giggling and stolen glances in his direction of passing schoolgirls and college-aged women—a welcome and exotic sight. He had keyed in on that fairly early during his stay here. Funny how that worked. It was usually the opposite back home; there it was the Asians who were in disproportionately high demand.

He glanced at his watch, a flicker of concern dampening his high spirits only for a moment, then he remembered that the girl was no doubt well-equipped to handle unforeseen obstacles. She had probably just misjudged the distance.

He picked her out of the crowd at last, and he returned her laugh, erasing her awkward indecision. ‘Here I am,’ he replied with a smile, giving her outfit an appreciative look. He didn’t bother trying to hide it; girls dressed nicely because they wanted the attention and guys wanted just as much to give them the attention. Why bother pretending otherwise?

‘Yeah,’ he answered, ‘This place is beginning to grow on me. I’ve been looking for an apartment now that it looks like I’m here for the long haul, but I’m not exactly in a hurry.’

He made for the door, pushing it open with one outstretched arm and motioning for Sasha to enter.

‘What about you, how’s your Japanese coming along? Got a good grasp of it yet?’


°1,052

“Thank you,” she added a smile to the genuine words after walking inside as he so kindly held open the door.

The place wasn’t busy but it wasn’t empty either. Small groups of friends sat around the tables with the most seats, meanwhile some couples had turned their attention to the higher tables. The barman was making a drink, one of the servers was taking an order from the nearby table. Sasha let her eyes dwell across the room, wondering where Otto would like to sit.

“My Japanese.. is still horrible, if I’m honest.” Laughing, she motioned toward one of the round tables nearby the window. It had three seats, enough for them and her bag. She didn’t like putting it on the floor.

“I’m trying and struggling, it’s so different from the other languages I know, and from the ones I’ve tried before.” Lightly shaking her head, she carefully slid between two seats before claiming one of the barstools for herself. The large window gave them enough view on the street they had just entered from. She liked the bits of sun falling in onto the table.

“What about you? Planning to join the evening classes on Japanese or is that too boring for you?” Chuckling softly, she quickly ‘stole’ a menu from the empty table nearby. Now he could pick his drink while she searched the menu for something she liked. In all honesty, she already knew what she liked, she simply wasn’t sure which one she would pick.

In the end it would be the strawberry daiquiri. Unless.. the pineapple cocktail seemed nice as well, though she was hesitant about the orange juice they would add. Blinking, she made her decision and turned her attention toward the man across of her. “Do you fancy something small to eat?”

Turning the menu, she revealed the list of tapas in case he hadn’t noticed it yet. The top started out with the usual olives, cheese, and other small snacks, but toward the end things were getting a bit more interesting. Waiting for him to make a choice, she wondered what he had been up to since their last meeting.

“I’ve met a couple of people from the Order,” shaking her head a bit, she smiled. It was odd to talk about, still, but she was growing used to it. “they’re nice, but some of their ideas seem a bit.. odd.” Unsure of how to describe it, she wondered if the Council he had mentioned had been the same.

“They have guards all over the castle, it’s like.. a military base. I mean, I get it, to an extent, but if the Queen is one of the strongest Quincy.. why would she need so many guards?” Feeling herself getting carried away, she was glad when the waitress appeared in the corner of her eye. The strawberry daiquiri she planned on ordering would certainly be delicious.


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