Kitty's Favorite:

(2 parts) Lemon Juice

(4 parts) Carbonated Water

(1 part) Sugar Syrup

(3 parts) Gin

(??? Parts) King's Anger

Time was a funny thing. King didn't have a good sense of it. It shifted like waves, one overlapping the other. Crashing. Crashing. Colliding like the way his breath hits the air. A shiver, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. Fingernails claw desperately at the fur lining the inside as if he could dig a hole into somewhere he'd rather be. The jacket's too big. He can't bring himself to get rid of it. It still smells like lemon. Still smells like old cigarettes and lipstick pressed to the collar and a dozen other memories that warm him much better.

He can't read the signs. A miracle he got here at all, but he's climbing the steps. One, two, a footfall and it's echo. Another step. Higher, up and up until he swears the atmosphere feels thin but if the elderly woman climbing beside him can power through, King sure as hell will. He ain't ready to be bested by any grandma. So he'll grit his teeth. Pull his breath through his teeth, let it out slow. The morning's almost wet, moist. Fog comes in through the city. Somehow, King imagined Tokyo somewhat brighter. Louder. Busier. But in the early hours, it feels still. Like the air that lingers in his lungs a fraction too long before he remembers to let it out. And it flies. Like the birds that nest on the top of the temple. Flying, soaring, somewhere better. Somewhere without jade masks and dead bodies and glazed eyes and missing fucking leaders that can't bother to leave a note that any rational person could decrypt. Patience is key.

"You look lost." The voice pulls him to a stop. She's sitting on a concrete lion, blowing a purple bubble. The gum pops before it gets too big. She pulls it back to her lips. Smacks once, twice, and everything moves in twos. Her eyes narrow, brushing a strand of black hair off her shoulder. Slowly rising, hopping onto the steps. Moving closer, looking at him while she works her teeth. King arches an eyebrow. "First time traveling outside the country?"

A laugh. Easy, natural, pulling his lips away from his teeth. Look sheepish, play your cards, make it feel so easy he can almost forget he's bluffing. She barely comes to his chin. Still, the way she stares sends a chill up him. "How'd you guess?" he asks. Hands pull out of pockets, feet shift just so slightly. Body posture is everything. Everything. Suddenly, he's open. Welcoming. Almost flirting in the way his smile settles.

A smirk. Arms cross, a hip jutted out. Almost amused, almost pleased. "King's rarely like to leave their thrones, isn't that right?" The bait is swallowed but the hook remains, dangling empty, leaving him bare. The smile flickers. Falters. Not quite genuine though he can't help it.

Pull it back, reel it in, there's still time to cast and recast the show hasn't even begun yet. Patience is key. This must be who they talked about. An oracle? How cliche. She looks more like a punk kid with spray paint under her fingernails and a navel piercing. But looks can be deceiving. King doesn't judge. He had a navel piercing once too. He's been the rebellious route. "It's a good thing I'm looking for an empress then," he replies. Voice steady, surprise pulled back. If this was a movie, he'd wait for the line. The dreaded I've been expecting you. Then he'd find out he was the chosen one. Destined for greatness.

But this isn't the movie. The air tastes like gasoline now, thick and stirring as the city rises. She studies him. Quiet. Waiting. King studies too. Her gaze isn't as heated as the Empress's, not as powerful, but there's something hard and glossy their. The protective exoskeleton of an insect adapted. Protective camouflage. What must it be like to see the future? He doesn't know. He feels the air brush by him with the hum of tourists eager to snap a photo before the crowds arrive. Unaware that they are the crowd. Unaware of the two exchanging glances in front of the temple steps. "I like you." Those are her words. Simply, abrupt. Then, she turns. "Walk with me.

It's better not to object. Three steps forward and a glance over her shoulder, then he follows. They walk through the temple, footsteps falling in the empty space between the other. She steps, then he does, then her, him, her, him, until they reach the end and only then do they stop in unison. If they notice, they do not care, they are invisible. Ghosts in the early morning rush. Ducking into a marked off room. A historical place they don't want the riff-raff finding. Destroying. Vandalising but isn't that what King is here for? To find, and then to destroy. Find the Empress. Destroy the threat, if there even is one. In his bones, he feels there is.

She grows tired of his pace. It's not fast enough for her taste. Not quick enough. Not quick enough. The words linger in his thoughts the further into the temple they go. Fingers wrap around his jacket, tugged, pulled forward by this four foot nothing that somehow makes him intimidated. Irritation rises like a sore throat no amount of honey-coated lozenges can cure. He hates the taste, hates the burn of menthol on his tongue. Patience is key. But her purple-painted fingernails leave indents in the leather of the jacket. Clutched too hard. Too aggressive. If she ruins this, he may kill her yet. The jacket is his. His alone, even though the name scrawled in sharpie on the tag says differently.

A corner turned, pulled through a curtain and the room they're in is brightly lit. He blinks, one eye after the other and then together, that's the theme of the day. The next blinks are for the decor. He feels jasmine smoke in his lungs, relaxing the air, soothing the body. But the masks are what claim him. Red, blue, green, yellow, and colors in between. No space remains empty. Nothing is bare. From the four walls, a million eyes stare down. The gaze of beasts and demons alike, plague doctors and vicious animals, and a jade glimmer of grinning teeth and familiar fangs that sends a shiver through him. "See any you recognize?" The words are almost a tease. Almost. Finally, she releases him. Walks around her domain. Her oracle tent. He's too transfixed by the watchful looks of the walls to care. "Masks are found in every culture in some form or fashion." Slowly, he steps forward. A table marks the center of the room. Low to the ground, covered with a shimmering cloth that seems to ache when he runs his fingers over it. "I like to use them to demonstrate my point."

Her eyes are on him again. Shinier before. The beetle flutters, wings spreading, skin harder, and he tries to ease her tension. A smile, more natural, not as falsified. "Ah, the house rules." An easy shrug, make it simple. He needs answers, he can play by her rules. It's all a game, an easy game. It won't take more than fifteen minutes, then he can go. He can leave this pixie, glitter-coated oracle and her room of a thousand eyes and get back to what's important.

Lips narrow, more serious, colder. "If you sit at my table, your mask comes off." The game changes, his gaze sharpens, more focused on her. King pulls away from his thoughts. Fingers curl, ever so slightly. But she keeps talking explaining. He's intrigued. He's terrified. "You get three questions, I get three questions. No lies, no tricks, no deception. Let me make this perfectly clear—" A half step forward. Somehow, it seems bigger. It's as if he can feel the head of her breath and the pain of her wrath from across the room. It's around his throat, purple fingers digging into flesh, threatening. "If you lie to me, if I even think you're lying to me, I will hang your mask on the wall for everyone to see." Eyes flicker to the masks. Is she threatening to peel off his face? He thinks she is. Somehow, he has no doubt she would. Somehow, he has no doubt she has before. The fortune teller sits, legs crossed one over the other. "Think long and hard." Oh honey, there's only one long and hard thing I think about.

What could she ask? How much could she know? He shrugs. He sits. "Let's get to it." The words feel so easy, rolling across his teeth catching on his tongue, but they seem to stretch for eons. A spoken contract, a nonverbal agreement. The mask is off. "Is the Empress here?"

For a moment, she is gone. Eyes close, breath sucked in. The jasmine seems thicker. Heavier. And there's something else. Something that makes his head feel lighter than it should. When she looks, she looks with eyes of molten silver. Steel running in rivers through eyes that burn with the heat of the ability behind them. "Here? No." There's something in her voice. Childish rebellion has been pushed aside. This is not a minuscule girl with purple gum and purple fingernails. This is a being with gifts from the gods, with wrath that scalds his skin and a power that cuts through the future with a knife. "And yes. She's bound with chain and charm. Neither angel nor devil has been able to free her."

He shifts. Sits forward, but leans back. Does he want to be close to this being? Does he want to pull away? "Do you know who's taken her?"

When she chuckles, it's like the earth breaks open. Teeth flash like the jaws of a great white. It's demonic. It's strong. "Someone much stronger than you. Or that smokescreen you hide behind and pray that it can solve all your troubles." Everything tells him to run. There is nothing for him here. No control. No control. He has lost the control panel and all the windows have been shattered. How did this pull away from him so fast and they've only just begun?

"Last question." There's relief in his voice. He hates the thing that shows its gifts before him. It's not like the others. Something untamed drips from the energy she projects. Like a slow bleeding morphine that studies him, the addict, with the unrelenting pressure of withdrawal. He doesn't dare take it in. He doesn't dare steal what belongs to her. "Where can I find her?"

It's an earthquake of a laugh. Seismic, destructive, yet the walls do not shake. The world is not moved. Only him. Only her. Only the blood thick in his throat like she's pulling the future from his veins and leaving him with nothing. "Patience is key," is his reply. For a moment, he is lost. He is afraid. But debts must be paid and he cannot rise. Does not try. The fire fades. The silver hardens like a sword plunged into oil until it burns and the smoke is black with rage. But she is no less powerful. She is no less knowing. "Why did you join Project Phoenix?"

There are too many replies. Money, he thinks. Safety. Shelter. Well crafted lies, each one filling his lips but unable to pass through the air. Only the truth. He can only tell her the truth. King is there, but he is not. He is holding the hand of a man with hair like the mane of a lion and a laugh that rips him to shreds of bliss and endless days. It's beautiful. It's happiness. It's pure. It's gone. It's gone. "Redemption." The words slips through the cracks, but it is what he should have said the very first day. "I wanted to prove I could be more."

She accepts it. There is no relief. It is as if her gaze peels back every layer of his flesh, makes him sting. Makes him burn. His shoulder throbs. The fortune teller sits forward. Her grin is as hungry as a cat waiting with open jaws for the baby bird to tumble from the nest. "When was the last time you felt pain? Real pain." He knows. He knows immediately. There is no hesitation, but he can't . He can't. Not this. No. Is he breathing? He can't tell. All he can see is the pulse of the lights.

Red and blue, bleeding together into a toxic purple that thrums with the heat of a thousand bodies moving as one. Vivid. Burning. Alive. And one in particular. He fills two glasses. One remains clutched in his fingers. Bleeding black ink into the drink it holds. Rage. Burning. He wants it to hurt. Wants it to suffer. The man who laughs at the table is nothing but bitter cigar smoke and vicious money and fists that make the ribs of those he deems lower bleed onto his diamond encrusted rings. King's body hurt for days. "If you stare any harder you'll break the glass." Kitty calms him. Kitty's arm is around his waist. Lips in his ear. Kissing, sweetly, touching gently. Fingers relax. The drink settles against the bar. But he hasn't seen. The smoke was an accident. "Patience is key, King. It's going to be alright." Another kiss. So gentle. And the drink is for him. Poisoned. Toxic. It passes his lips, made of lemon and gin and rage.

King realizes too late. Too late. Too late.

A throat clears. His eyes burn. "Early this year. My—" He can't say the word. It rests on the tip of his tongue. So close. Waiting, begging. Lover. Boyfriend. World. King can feel them like sutures tightening in his throat. Cutting off his air. Suffocating him on a final kiss that he can still feel long after its owner is gone."Kitty, he—" It's pain. It's throbbing in his shoulder. It's aching in his body. Like the heartbreak he forced himself not to feel. Like the pain he tried to ignore. Like the glassy stare of a lover destroyed. "He lost his mind." The coat belonged to him. It's all that's left of his love. Of him. The collar of his shirt is tugged down, scars revealed. The claws of a lion, cut so deep the stitches were too slick with blood for him to do properly. King was never a seamstress. Never would be. "Clawed me down the front of this shoulder. I've never felt anything like it."

Her head tilts. The last question. The worst. The future ripped into the past into a bloody and agonizing present where a king of nothing waits in the temple of a god long dead desperate for answers and finding only pain. "Who was responsible?" she asks. He cannot answer. He can't.

"I—"

"Kitty? Kitty, it's me! Look at me!" The glaze in his eyes is frightening. King shakes his shoulders. Screams into his ear. He is afraid. He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing there. Nothing. Just a hollow shell where a man used to be. "Look-look at me!" But fight or flight is primal. King's voice is raw from screaming and the red and blue lights turn into police cars and an ambulance that can do nothing. Fight or flight is primal and in both of them, they fight. Kitty sinks his nails, always so deep, always so powerful, into King's shoulder. He was the one who should have been a superhero. He was the one who should have saved the world. Instead, he becomes a beast, driven by fear of a face he no longer recognizes. Agony burns through his chest, blood spilling hot and red on to the love of his life. King screams. Jerks his body away. And then they take him. Before he can even feel his name on his tongue one more time.

"Me. I did it to him."

There's nothing else to say.

Mix the gin, lemon juice and sugar syrup in a tall glass with ice, top up with soda water, garnish with lemon, spike with anger. Best served immediately to reap the full force of its adverse side effects.