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One would have expected such an invitation from a fat and corpulent man such as the Baron would have disgusted Kafka and filled her with dread, but she never felt fear. Instead, she simply smiled and laughed.
“Of course my Baron. I eagerly await your presence in the baths…”
Elio’s Script was certain. She wouldn’t be defiled by the putrid Baron. The mission would be accomplished before such a barbaric act.
The Baron gifted her a Foxian servant for her excursion into the bathhouses of his mansion. Quietly, the Foxian led her into the Baron’s private bath.
Kafka confidently shed her clothes, handing it off to the servant assigned to her, who stood by the bathtub passively, her eyes avoiding Kafka’s nude form. Kafka stepped into the tub and gracefully sank into it, sighing joyfully at the tepid waters within.
“Would you like to listen to a record my Lady?” the Foxian asked politely.
Kafka was curious, so she nodded.
She was unprepared for the phonograph’s melodies, thankful that Elio didn’t tell her of the coming experience.
It started with sincerity and anticipation…
She could hear the opening barrage from the weapons Kafka allowed her lover to borrow. The roar of her sub-machine guns echoed throughout the bathhouses and into the Baron’s private abode, followed by the scream of the guests.
The Foxian servant froze, gripping the bottle of Osmanthus wine, her fearful gaze upon the door to their chamber.
Kafka giggled, her empty glass raised expectantly.
“Pay that no head. There’s nothing you can do. Besides, you will be freed of that awful Baron of yours…
The servant shivered despite the heatwave emanating from the bath.
“You know?” she whispered.
Kafka smiled toothily, shaking her glass playfully.
“It’s our only reason for being here.”
The heat of the water emanated into the very air of the room. Like a web, it entangled all noise from outside, the very screams of the guests as Stelle cut them down with Kafka’s katana.
The wine was rich and sweet, like a happy memory from childhood, cherished and remembered. Kafka downed more and more of the wine, allowing the water to soak into her skin, its tepidity wrapping her warmly like Stelle would wrap around her at night, after long and hard missions, the sweat clinging onto their flesh as they furiously fucked upon Kafka’s bed sheets.
The very thought made Kafka hungry for her lover, her knees knitted tightly together in anticipation.
The melody was followed by a passionate catharsis…
Scarcely past the halls of the bathhouse and behind the door of the Baron’s private bath, Kafka can hear the pleas of the Baron, imagining Stelle with wild eyes, her pinstriped suit covered in the blood and guts of the guests, her katana’s blade resting upon the Baron’s shoulder, its bloody edge grazing his fatty neck.
The Foxian froze, placing the wine bottle upon the table where the Baron’s phonograph lay, before quickly bowing to Kafka.
“Please forgive me, but I have to go–”
Kafka reached out to the servant gently, like a spider would gently prance its way over its web towards its prey. She smiled sickeningly sweet.
“It’s fate darling,” she whispered. “It is in Elio’s Script. He must die. He will die. Stay and enjoy the record.”
The melody went from one climax after another…
Heavy bootsteps echoed in the bath house, the many remaining guards doing a fighting withdrawal from Stelle, the hoarse screaming of battle coming ever closer to the Baron’s bath.
“FOR THE BARON!” A husky male voice cried, before his voice was stolen by Stelle’s blade, drowning in the blood leaking from his neck.
Kafka sat in the bath, her wine glass empty and barely in the grip of her hand, patiently watching the doorway. Her mind raced, imagining the bones which shattered with every punch Stelle threw, the blood which rained into the air with each swing Stelle took, the spent casings which tapped the floor like a skilled pianist as Stelle fired.
Suddenly a round shot through the doorway into the Foxian servant’s chest.
Her eyes widened in surprise, her mouth opening in silent pain, until her knees failed her, eventually collapsing onto the wet tiled floor.
She stared up at Kafka’s relaxed form, scarcely able to speak past the blood which wept from her mouth, reaching out to her with shaky hands…
Kafka smiled and raised a single finger over her mouth.
The record's spinning came to a final stop and those hoarse shrieks were no longer audible.
“Mission accomplished,” Kafka said smoothly.
The door to the bath opened, and in came Stelle with her sub-machine guns and sword holstered, a satisfied look upon her normally placid face.
She smoothly stepped around the servant’s corpse, towards the bathtub, kneeling before it to reach for Kafka’s free dangling hand.
Stelle gently took the glass away from her hand and placed it upon the table next to her, before pressing her lips to Kafka’s hand.
“Did I do well dear?”
Stelle looked up, her deep amber eyes like a puppy before her master, waiting to be fed.
Stelle’s silver hair was long, and it encircled her neck like a collar. Kafka ran her hands through the soft hair, as long as a leash, and smiled.
“Of course puppy.”
Stelle’s face broke into a wide grin. “Let me get you dried up and dressed. The authorities will be coming soon.”
Kafka took Stelle’s hand and stepped out of the bathtub into the waiting arms of Stelle, who was holding a fresh white towel for her. Her ever obedient servant, Stelle dried every limb every limb, peppering every inch of her newly dried skin with her red kisses. Like a priestess before the sacred relic, she offered up Kafka’s folded clothes to her, Stelle bowing her head slightly.
Slinging on her black jacket, Kafka left the bathhouse, gracefully avoiding the corpses which adorned the tiles, Stelle following her eagerly, their hands intertwined.