Ace

                  "I want your phone number."

                   "You can't just keep showing up showing up wherever I am," Mavis hissed in a low voice, her eyes darting towards the stage, where a stripper named Amber was currently dancing. "People are going to notice! Besides, I decided don't trust you."

                    "You do not seem to understand," Ace said coldly. Perhaps she had overestimated the intelligence of Americans after all. "Your life is in danger. I am the only one who can protect you."

                    Mavis tipped her head back, letting out a frustrated laugh. "You're not Sarah Connor. This isn't The Terminator. And I am not giving you my phone number!"

                    "You are mistaking the part where it was a question."

                    "Why do you even need it, huh?" Mavis snapped. She reached out to poke Ace's shoulder, but Ace honed the lightning in her bones: her grip tightened on Mavis's arm, pulling her until Mavis stumbled. "Hey! You―"

                      Mavis had landed on Ace's lap. The feel of her round ass―for a moment, Ace was rendered speechless.

                      It gave Mavis time to say, "Listen, you talk like a psychopath. How do I know you aren't some serial killer?" 

                     "What is the Terminator?" 

                     Ace noticed the bouncer eyeing them, attention narrowing on the way Ace's hands had slid over Mavis's curvy hips. Immediately, she let go.

                     Mavis blushed.

                     "Okay, Ace, if you're really a real person and not some cyborg sent from the future organization Sky Net, how about you tell me . . . what's your favourite dessert?"

                     "Women."

                     This girl . . . to Ace, she smelled like strawberry. Like coconut. And Ace might as well have been a dying man in a Saharan wasteland, for all the dessert she had been able to eat while in prison.

                      Pink stained Mavis's warm brown skin. Ace was beginning to like that colour.

                     "I have to go," Mavis pressed. "I can't stay too long with one person unless―"

                      Ace slipped five crisp one-hundred dollar bills between her fingers. Money meant nothing to her. 

                      Mavis's mouth opened. Closed. "That's―a lot of money."

                      Yes, maybe Americans were stupid. Ace let the money dangle between them, and she leveled the same glare at Mavis that she had used to make war prisoners tremble.

                      "I can't take that."

                      There was a word for people like this. Mentally unstable. "Yes, you can."

                      "No, I really can't," Mavis said, and she pulled away from Ace. The absence of her warmth on Ace's thighs was like an ember snuffed out. Her cheeks slowly reddened, and she clenched her fists.

                      Did I say something? What did I do wrong? 

                      "I have other clients," Mavis said stiffly.

                      "You are being unreasonable."

                      Mavis leaned down until she was whispering in Ace's ear. To anyone else in the club, it might have looked like a lover's caress. "Unreasonable is a stranger showing up in my life and telling me she's some kind of hitman ordered by the Russian prince, who wants me dead, but because you decided to spare my life, lucky me, I get to leave the country!"

                      There was a strange tilt to her head, and her eyes . . . those expressive, liquid eyes . . . Ace's breath stilled.

                      "What do you know," she said. An order―not a question.

                      "I―what makes you think―I don't know anything!"

                      "If you know something, you have to tell me right now," Ace said between her teeth. "I may not be the only one sent."

                     "Oh, so I have more lunatics chasing after me?" 

                     "I am not a lunatic."

                     Mavis scoffed. "Does that offend your delicate sensibilities, Mr. Schwarzenegger?"

                     "I am Russian," Ace said coldly. "Not German."

                     "It was a joke!"

                     Mavis was still looking in disbelief at Ace, shaking her head, as she backed away.

                     "I have to go . . . I've spent too much time here."

                     "You said you needed to make at least 500 dollars."

                     "I don't want your money." 

                     "I do not think you have the luxury of choosing."

                     Ace hadn't meant it as a blow, but it hit like one anyway. Hurt flashed over Mavis's face, and her teeth caught on her lower lip. Ace knew she was right―so why did she feel like . . . what was the word for it . . . an asshole? 

                     "Whatever," Mavis said, and she was gone. Stalking away.

                     Ace watched her leave. Suppressing the urge to watch the lush, round curve of her―

                     "Baby, you look a little . . . frustrated," purred a woman wearing emerald silk. She dragged her fingertips along Ace's jaw. "I'm Ruby. Is there anything I can do to . . . satisfy you?"

                      From the opposite side of the room, Ace caught Mavis watching her.

                      But faster than Ruby could react, Ace clasped the woman's fingers in a stone grip. "Don't touch me," she growled.

                      Ruby slinked away, looking defeated, and from across the room . . . Ace could have sworn she saw Mavis turn away, faintly pleased.

                      Ace was sipping a cheap imitation of Russian vodka when Mavis stomped up to her, smoke blazing from her ears.

                     "You did not."

                     Calmly, without even looking away from her swirling drink, Ace said, "Obviously I did."

                     "You did not―" Her voice had become louder, and a few men at the bar glanced over. Mavis lowered her tone. "You did not deposit twenty thousand dollars into my bank account."

                    "You should have taken the five hundred."

                    "Would that have stopped you from doing this?"

                    "No," Ace said honestly. "But perhaps it would have softened the blow to your pride."

                    "Pride?" Mavis spluttered. "Pride? I'll show you pride, I―"

                    Without warning, she grabbed Ace by the collar. Yanking her off of the barstool. 

                    Ace didn't think she had ever been dragged anywhere before.

                    And before this moment, she would have slit the throat of anyone who tried. 

                    Mavis's fingers tightened on her collar. For approximately ten seconds, Ace allowed herself to be led towards the exit of the bar.

                    Her shift here must have been over―it was 3:02 a.m.

                    Then Ace planted herself on the ground. Enough was enough.

                    Although she hadn't exactly minded Mavis's touch.

                    "What happens," she said icily, "when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?"

                    "I don't know," Mavis snapped. "I never made it past ninth grade." 

                    For a moment, Ace could only stare. Blinking.

                    "Yeah," she continued bitterly. "Didn't expect that, did you?" 

                    She let go of Ace, her touch searing, and she tucked her purse tighter against her chest. Starting towards the parking lot.

                     She didn't look back.

                     An asshole. Yes, that was the word.

                    "I don't think you're getting the hint. Like, at all."

                   "By hint, are you referring to the numerous times you told me to leave you alone?"

                   Mavis opened the door wider, one hand massaging her forehead. "It's like you don't understand sarcasm," she muttered. "Come on. Wait―"

                   "What?"

                   "You have to promise not to kill me or my daughter for . . ." Mavis glanced back at the kitchen stove. The light flickered. 3:34 a.m. "The next five-ish hours?"

                    "What if I lied?"

                    "Well, saying something like that certainly isn't helping your case."

                    "You are too trusting."

                    Mavis sighed, tugging her silk pink robe tighter around herself. "I don't consider that a bad thing, actually."

                    "Unless I put a bullet in your head while you sleep."

                    Mavis groaned. "You can't just say things like that!"

                    "I am telling you that you should not trust me."

                   "Great. You're dangerous. I still don't think anyone should have to sleep in their car."

                   "I have slept in far worse places," Ace said. "And I will not sleep tonight anyway. I have to make sure you are not in danger."

                   Mavis's eyes narrowed, and it seemed like she looked―for the first time, she really looked at her. Ace shivered. It was cold, but―"You look awful. No kidding."

                   Ace raised a brow. She had never been called anything but a god. 

                   It was usually either: You look like a goddess in those high heels. Prekrasnyy.

                  Or, Please, please, spare me. God, please, what did I do to deserve this . . .

                  Mavis crossed her arms. In the lamplight from the street, the silhouette of her soft body was shadowed in silvery light. Her chest was smooth, and the dip between her breasts―it was gilded in moonlight.

                   She looked ethereal.

                   In Russian, the word for goddess was boginya.

                   "God, I am such an idiot," Mavis breathed, and Ace had the feeling she was talking to herself. And before Ace could protest, she was saying, "Come on. Haul your ass inside. You can still protect me from inside, can't you?"

                   "Yes, but―you should not trust me."

                   "Are you making a case against yourself?"

                   "You know I am a killer." Ace couldn't stop the frustration that slipped into her voice. "You know why I was sent here. Why? Why invite me inside your home?"

                   Mavis paused. Her round, dark-lashed eyes were full of liquid night.

                   "Because if you wanted to kill me, you would have."

                   "That is your reasoning?"

                    Mavis huffed impatiently. "Are you coming in or not? I have a nine a.m. shift tomorrow."

                    The door opened wider, and Ace stepped in.

                    As a child, she had only ever grown up in beautiful, pristine palaces. Marble as cold as ice, with columns as tall as her eyes could see. The colourful structures and geometric patterns were gorgeous, striking―but they had never been this. A cramped, cluttered kitchen. Painted flower cups and an apron on the floor that said, I'm A Ninja. A small TV in the living room and a couch scarred with exhausted tears, covered by a New York Knicks blanket.

                     "This is . . . very nice," Ace said, and she meant it.

                     Mavis sighed. "It's not much, but―it's home, you know?"

                     No, Ace thought. I don't know.

                     She had never had a home. Not at the Czar Palace. Not with Aleksi. She had thought, once, that she had had one with Calista. But that had been a lie, too.

                     "So," Mavis said. "You can stay . . . well, wherever you want. I'm holding you to that promise. Five-ish hours."

                      "Okay," Ace said.

                      "Why do you sound like that?"

                      "Like what?"

                      "Emotionless," Mavis pressed in a low voice. "You just . . . you act like you're a soldier. I haven't even seen you smile once."

                      "I am a soldier," Ace said coldly.

                      "Not here you aren't. You act like you're this scary, dangerous thing, but―" Mavis shook her head. "I'm crazy, aren't I? I barely even know you . . . it doesn't matter."

                       She turned around, but Ace said, "I am dangerous. You should not forget that. I―" I have killed two-hundred and ninety-seven people. I have tortured far more. I am the leader of the national interrogation team. I . . . "I could hurt you."

                      "But you haven't."

                      "I could kill you."

                      Mavis took a step towards her, her chin tilting up so she could look into Ace. Stares locked together. "Then do it," she whispered. "What are you waiting for?"

                      "You do not know what you're saying," Ace bit out, frustrated. "You do not understand what I am capable of."

                      Mavis only shrugged. "I like to think people are better than even they think they are. I'll judge you on your actions, not your words. And so far, you haven't hurt me."

                     "It does not mean I won't."

                     "Not for the next five-ish hours, you won't. So goodnight, Ace."

                    Ace stared after Mavis as she walked away, disappearing into a bedroom at the end of the hallway.

                    Yes, she decided. Americans were stupid.

                   After four hours, she had finally figured out why. Sponge Bob Square Pants had been marathoning the Nickelodeon Channel the whole night, and Ace's eyes were glued to the screen. No wonder all of America was intellectually stunted, if this was the kind of TV they watched as children.

                  It was seven in the morning when a little girl skipped into the room.

                  Ace wasn't prepared for the scream.

                  It took Mavis less than thirty seconds to stumble out of bed, crash into a vase in the hallway, and arrive, panting, into the living room.

                 "What―what's going on?" she gasped, her eyes darting wildly back and forth.

                 Ace held up her hands. The Sponge Bob theme song was playing.

                 "Why is there a human Barbie on the couch, Mommy?"

                 Mavis sighed. "She's a Russian assassin who was sent here to kill me."

                 "Really?"

                 "No," Mavis scowled. "Now, come on. Go eat breakfast. We're awake now anyways, and you have school soon. And you." 

                  Ace was tempted to look back, just out of pure hope that the terrifying glare Mavis was shooting her way wasn't meant for her. 

                  "Have you been watching this crap all night?"

                  "American TV is fascinating."

                  "Sponge Bob? Really?" Mavis flicked off the TV with the remote. "Just wait till you see Looney Toons."

                   "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy." 

                   Ace was reminded of why she despised little children.

                   "Yes, baby?"

                   "Where's the Froot Loops?"

                   Mavis peered into the cabinet. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry―I must have forgotten to pick some up when I went grocery shopping."

                   Was it possible for a person to deflate? The air whooshed out of the little girl along with her soul, like the absence of Froot Loops was the bane of her existence.

                   "Can we please, please go grocery shopping?"

                   "You have school soon, and I have work in a little bit. Not today, baby, I'm sorry."

                   "What if I didn't go to school? You know there are only those putas there who say rude things to the teachers. I'm not learning anything anyway!"

                   Ace noticed, for the first time, the textbooks on the counter. The philosophy books on the table, half-open inside the cabinets.

                   If they didn't belong to Mavis, then―

                   "Isla, there's nobody here to watch you." Mavis shot a glare at Ace, as if daring her to disagree. It was clear she didn't trust Ace. 

                   Good, Ace thought. Maybe she had some common sense after all.

                   "You have to go to school," Mavis continued. "You know I love to take you out on my off days, but I can't. Mommy needs to work today."

                   "For the money?" said Isla in a soft voice.

                    Mavis bit her lip. "No, of course not. Mommy just promised her coworker that she would cover for him, that's why."

                   It was clearly a lie. But Ace, against her will, found herself respecting this woman. Who clearly didn't want to burden her daughter with her financial troubles.

                   Isla's eyes were bright. Glittering. Mischievous.

                   "Someone has to come with me to the grocery store, right?"

                   "Aye, mi cielo, you know Jenny is busy right now . . ."

                   Ace didn't like the way the child was looking at her.

                   "She'll take me," Isla said.

                   "I'll take her," Ace agreed.

                   Her eyes widened. What had just come out of her mouth? 

                   What had she just done? 

                  "No, she won't," Mavis hissed, looking at Ace accusingly.

                  No, I won't, Ace tried to say. What came out of her mouth was, "Yes, I will."

                  Isla glanced delightedly between them.

                  "No, you won't," Mavis said through gritted teeth.

                  "Yes, I will. We're going to get Froot Loops."

                  What, exactly, were Froot Loops? Ace wasn't quite sure. But it didn't matter. This was a fight she wasn't going to back down from―although she didn't know why.

                  "I love grocery shopping!" Isla said. "Let's go to Costco!"

                  "Ace?" Mavis said. "A word? In private?"

                  "Goldfish!" Isla sang. "The snack that smiles back!"

                  Ace followed her into a bathroom. The shower curtain was printed with pink ducks. Mavis cornered her against the wall and said, "What are you playing at?"

                  "What do you mean, what am I playing at?"

                  "I mean, yesterday you told me you were a killer! You told me you were dangerous! And now you want to take my daughter to Costco?"

                   "She wants Fruit Loops," Ace said reasonably.

                   "I―" She poked Ace's chest. "Don't―" Ace grabbed her wrist. "Trust you." 

                   They were suddenly so close that if Ace moved a breath forward, she could seal Mavis's mouth against her own. 

                    "I trust you around me, just . . . not my daughter."

                    "I'm glad," Ace whispered, and she could taste the coconut scent in the air between them. "You understand, then."

                    "I'm not fleeing the country, if that's what you mean."

                    "They will come for you," Ace breathed. She wanted to trace the soft skin of Mavis's cheek. She repressed the urge. "They will realize you have a daughter."

                    Mavis's eyes flickered.

                    Ace searched that wide, glossy gaze.

                   "If you know something," Ace said, "you have to tell me."

                   "I . . . I don't know anything."

                    Something in Ace hummed. Lie, a voice whispered.

                    "You have to tell me. I have to protect you."

                    "Why?"  Mavis demanded, stepping back. The door rattled with the force of her, and a yellow towel slipped off the sink. "Why are you doing this? I don't get it! You're a killer, aren't you? Then kill me! What's stopping you?"

                     "I . . . couldn't. I can't."

                     "Come on," Mavis challenged. "It would make your life easier, wouldn't it? You can just kill me, report to your little prince, and go back home to Russia. Why spare me? You don't even know me."

                     How did Ace explain that when she had first seen Mavis, her instinct wasn't to get it over with, but to . . . to protect her? 

                     "I'm not a saviour," Ace said harshly. "But I think, in you, I saw . . . me."

                     "I would say something about a dirty joke, but you don't really seem to understand humour," Mavis snapped.

                      Ace pushed her against the wall. Leaning so close towards her that their breaths mingled, that her lips . . . Ace could already imagine what she would taste like, that strawberry kiss. 

                    She was craving dessert.

                    "I saw you," Ace said. "And I did not want to hurt you. I realized I . . . there is an old philosophy I thought of. That a person is only one moment away from hell. And this . . . this was one of those moments, when I thought, If I do this, I will not come back from it. This will be the moment I think of when I die. And hell . . . hell will be waiting."

                     "So you didn't kill me because you didn't want to go to hell?" 

                    Ace laughed roughly. "I cannot tell you more than that. I don't know."

                    Something in Mavis softened almost imperceptibly. Ace moved towards her, until there was nothing left between them but a single thread. 

                    Mavis's tongue slipped over the curve of her bottom lip.

                    Ace leaned down.

                    The door behind Mavis swung outwards―and she crashed backwards into the hallway, both of them together, tangled so that Ace was positioned on top of her.

                     Mavis was gasping. A flush lit her cheeks.

                    "What were you talking about?" Isla asked innocently.

                    Ace slowly removed herself from atop Mavis, and Mavis scrambled back to her feet. Tucking stray pieces of deep brown hair behind her ears. "Nothing, baby. We were just―talking about―how you and Ace can go to the grocery store now."

                   "No school today?"

                   "No school today," Mavis agreed breathlessly, avoiding Ace's eyes. "So, go on now. Get ready. I'll be home for lunch, okay?"

                    Once Isla had hurried back into her bedroom, Mavis turned to Ace. Still glancing down, lashes fluttering.

                    "Are you sure about this? Really, I can just send her to school. It's not a big deal. You already spared my life―you really don't have to babysit my kid."

                    "It is not babysitting," Ace said. "And I am curious to know what Fruit Loops are."

                    Mavis laughed―just a little.

                    The sound was like . . . like honey and snow and calligraphy. Everything beautiful in the world.

                     Ace didn't realize she was staring until Mavis said, "What? Is there . . . is something on my face?"

                    "No," Ace said. "You are beautiful."

                    Mavis stumbled back. Blushing―as she said, "You can't just―I have to get to work. I'll―um, I'll see you later, okay?"

                     Only a moment later, Isla had thrown open the door to her room. She was wearing combat boots, knee-length purple-pink socks, and a shirt that said, INVISIBLE NINJA. 

                    "Ready?" she said brightly. 

                    "Yes," Ace said, still staring down the hallway, towards the bedroom door where Mavis had disappeared.

                      "So . . . do you like Cheerios?"

                      "I don't know," Ace said, pushing the grocery cart―and the cross-legged girl inside―through the cereal aisle. "They don't have them in Russia."

                      "Russia. Is that where you're from?"

                      "Yes."

                      "So are you really a Russian assassin?"

                      "Yes."

                      "Why are you here?"

                      "I was sent to kill Mavis Griffon."

                      Isla nodded. "That's my mom. So . . . do you like her?"

                      Ace stopped in the middle of the aisle. "Like her?"

                      "Do you want to make babies with her?"

                      "That is not how the reproductive system works," Ace said, continuing down until Isla pointed towards a box called Goldfish Crackers. 

                      "So you do like her."

                     "I―" Ace paused. "I never said that."

                     "I kissed a girl and I liked it, taste of her―"

                      "That is an inappropriate song."

                      "It's Katy Perry. She's practically the gospel."

                      "The gospel?"

                      Isla was nodding eagerly. "That song is in the Bible."

                      Ace narrowed her eyes. 

                      "So," Isla continued cheerfully. "Do you know Vladimir Putin?"

                     Ace steered the grocery cart towards the frozen aisle. "How about it's my turn to ask questions?"

                      "Like what?"

                      "What's your favourite subject?"

                      "Science."

                      "What kind?"

                      "The periodic table kind."

                      Ace nodded. In a quiet, unassuming tone, she said, "Which two elements did Marie Curie add to the periodic table?"

                      Isla rolled her eyes. "Radium and polonium. That was an easy―" Her eyes widened. "Wait."

                      "You are intelligent," Ace said, satisfied. 

                      "No I'm not."

                      "Which element is the most abundant?"

                      "Hydrogen is the most abundant element in the universe, but if you're talking about Earth and the ocean and the crust, it's oxygen with 49.5%."

                       "Why do you deny it?"

                       "Deny what?"

                       "This gift."

                        "It's not a gift," Isla muttered. "It's a real curse, if you ask me. All the other girls at school make fun of me for it."

                        "So you pretend to be less intelligent."

                        Isla nodded, eyes flickering guiltily. "I hate school. The teachers suck. The other kids suck. But Mom makes me go anyway."

                        "But you . . ." Ace frowned. "You don't need it."

                        "I know," Isla whined. "You try telling her that. Second grade is not important in the grand scheme of the universe. But she wants me to finish, so I can do anything I want. I keep telling her that Bill Gates never went to college."

                         "The other girls," Ace said. "They make fun of you?"

                         "My mom doesn't know," Isla said guiltily. "I don't want to tell her. I know she'd move me, or even let me stay home. But then I'll be more of a freak than I already am."

                          "You are not a freak," Ace said harshly.

                          Isla glanced up with soft, liquid eyes. The same as Mavis's. "Thanks, Ace."

                          "You're . . . very mature for second grade."

                          "I want to be a ninja when I grow up."

                          Ace plucked a tub of Neapolitan ice cream from the freezer so Isla wouldn't see her smile.

                           "Gross!" Isla said. "Chocolate sucks."

                           Ace's burner phone rang.

                           "One second," she promised Isla. "Hello?" she said into the phone. 

                           "Sister," said Aleksi's deep, smooth voice.

                           "Moy prints," she said. My prince. 

                            "Is she dead?"

                            "You gave me until Thursday."

                             "You've always been an overachiever, haven't you?"

                             "Yes," Ace said, glancing back at Isla, who was squinting at the label of a French vanilla ice cream tub. "She is dead."

                              "And the child?"

                              "You did not tell me about the child."

                              Aleksi's soft voice laughed. "I knew you would be thorough, sister."

                              "Yes, I killed them both," Ace whispered.

                               "Good," Aleksi breathed. "I want proof."

                                He hung up.

                                When Ace looked back at Isla, she was deciding between pizza with pineapple or broccoli. She held up both for Ace to decide.

                                I want proof. 

                               And so it would begin.

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Alright, now ... who is your favourite character?!

From the moon and back,
Sarai