Chapter Text
The old man’s place hadn’t changed a bit, Mireille found. And that included his security. The old man still trusted her, and that deserved some sort of respect. She picked her way through the rooms, took a seat, and waited.
At long last, the door to the place opened, and the old man himself stepped inside with Aerith’s gentleman friend right behind him. The old man took one look at her and sighed—that hadn’t changed either. “Hello, Mireille.”
“Oh, hello, Cloud.” Mireille turned to Aerith’s young man. “And hello, Zack.”
The old man crossed his arms. “What are you doing here, Mireille?”
“My granddaughter said she was scared half to death the other day by a mage dressed all in black who was with a spiky-haired blond.” She gave the old man a hairy eyeball. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who fits the description, would you?”
The old man gave her his own hairy eyeball. “She'd stolen something that had belonged to the mage’s mother. He was… upset.”
Mireille sighed. Kyrie would be selective with the truth. “Figures. The girl does have more daring than sense.” She turned to Aerith’s young man again. “And did you ever figure out who or what you were looking for?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “At the rate we’re going, I don’t know if we’re ever going to find them.”
His need to fade away came off him like a beacon; he needed to watch that. He looked like he was considering something, and then: “We’re looking for the Angel of the Slums.”
“Ah! You’re hardly the first young man to have fallen under the Angel’s spell.” She chuckled for a bit. “And what will you do when you find her?”
He stayed quiet for a moment more, then: “Give her a warning.” The old man was pleased at this; she knew what that look on his face meant.
Mireille leaned forward in her seat. “And what sort of warning would that be?”
He was giving off the same need to run that she and Kyrie tended to have in uncertain situations; he really needed to watch that. “That a lot of people are looking for her, and if she wants to keep on giving to the poor, she needs to be careful.”
“Well!” Mireille clapped her hands. “I thank you for the warning. I’ll be sure to be more careful.”
His shoulders slumped, but he was holding up considerably well otherwise. “You’re the Angel of the Slums.”
“I should’ve known,” the old man muttered. He gave her another hairy eyeball. “I thought you said you’d given all of that up.”
“I had given it up.” And that was perfectly true. “But things are getting worse by the day and those above don’t want to make it better.” Mireille shrugged. “So I organize offerings on their behalf.”
“If you have time in the middle of your ‘charity work’,” He looked at Aerith’s young man. “I think you should take on a student.”
Mireille gave Aerith’s young man another once-over. She nodded, produced one of her daggers, and threw it at the old man's head.
Aerith's young man responded admirably: he caught the dagger in mid-air and threw it back at her. He followed the weapon's flight and a heartbeat later was holding his own dagger to her throat. "What the fuck was that?"
Mireille looked at the old man, who was of course relaxed about the whole thing. “He’s already got a knack for it.” Much too wild at the moment, but with some training up...
Aerith’s young man frowned. "That was a test?" He looked back at the old man, dagger still at Mireille's throat. "Did you know about this?"
"Had no idea," the old man said. "But if Mireille's decided to come out of retirement, I think we should take advantage of it."
Mireille raised a finger to the blade at her throat and leisurely wagged it from side to side, passing through the blade each time. Aerith's young man followed every movement. "I take it," Mireille said, putting her hand down, "that the old man's told you about what's in our blood?"
Aerith's young man loosened his grip a touch, but the dagger was still in place. Very focused, this one. “You’ve got demon blood, too?”
Mireille nodded, uncaring about a blade that wouldn't be able to cut her. “Enough that it helps with collecting my offerings but doesn’t show. We’ve got the same affinities, just about; for all I know, we could be kin.” She looked at him evenly. “Things are getting worse and being able to move about in different ways comes in useful.”
He looked away for a moment, put away his dagger, and backed away. “All right. Fine.”
Mireille folded her hands and placed them on her lap. “Now, I do expect payment for my expertise. You can’t coast by on your titles and your good looks forever, you know.”
He narrowed his eyes, looking very much like the old man. “How much?”
“You know, not everything can be solved with a fat bank account.” Mireille smiled. “Most things, but not all. No, no, I’ll need something more valuable.”
He let out a frustrated little growl. “Telling our client that despite doing all we could, we couldn’t find the Angel or get back what was stolen.”
The old man shook his head like he’d just heard about someone’s pet dying. “Those things happen. Pity.”
Mireille nodded. “A decent down payment, but you'll need more.” She got up from her seat and stretched. “It’s been nice to see you both again, but I’ll have to get going. Give my love to Aerith and Tifa.” She left the way she came, melting into the dark. She could afford to be dramatic, give her soon-to-be-pupil a taste of things to come.
He’d figure out the currency she needed and how to get it to her. She believed in him.