#Silk Wrath WIP
->*v0.4*<-
->*Tags: WIP, hmofa, fluff, unfounded revenge, violent first meeting, [vanilla], [soft squeezing], [antennae teasing/pulling]*<-

It was the juiciest, most perfectly ripe mango he had ever seen.

It had been a long day, so from the moment Paul laid his eyes on that bad boy, he was dead set on putting it in a smoothie. Having something to look forward to after his extra dose of the daily grind helped bring a little sunshine into the rest of his grocery run and post-afternoon rush drive.

Once he got home, Paul wasted little precious time sorting the groceries away. He just stuck whatever belonged in the fridge into the fridge and put everything else aside with a mental TODO. He'd be damned if he made himself wait for his fruity treat any longer than necessary. He laid the mango on the kitchen counter along with a pair of bananas, picked out specifically to assist with the recipes, selected a suitable knife and started slicing.

As he worked on the fruit, something flicked against his arm and landed next to the chopping board. Charlie had come to say hello, the only way he knew. Or she. Paul still wasn't entirely sure on that. Charlie was a moth, a rather unusual one. From what little information Paul could find, he was some sort of silk moth. Not THE silk moth, Bombyx mori, Paul was certain of that, but there was little documentation on the other species on the internet, and what scarce information he could scrounge up conflicted with each other.

Charlie was big, almost as big as Paul's palm, and mostly white. His hefty body was covered with a voluminous fluff coat, and his massive wings were adorned with a handful of black dots, along with a subtle dark line along the edge. His white fluffy legs looked like he was wearing tiny warm socks, and his long, intricate antennae, his sniffers, wriggled in the air.

“Well hello there, cutie,” Paul cooed as he gently scooped Charlie up from the counter. The moth was just as lively as ever, crawling around his hand to its back and onto his fingers. No matter how many times he'd see it, Paul never passed up a chance to admire his pet's strange beauty.

That was another oddity. Charlie was technically a second generation of Paul's pet insects. He'd originally caught the first moth purely out of curiosity when it got stuck in his window one evening. He had little knowledge of moth biology, but he was aware that they were short-lived, so he'd only intended to observe and document the creature while he could.

However, when the moth eventually passed away from old age a week later, Paul was surprised to find it had laid eggs inside the jar he'd kept it in overnight. He immediately seized the opportunity to learn more and set about building a habitat for the eggs. All it actually meant was filling a box with dirt and food, but that didn't stop him from calling it a fancy name. He also found wild mulberry trees around his town which he covertly took branches from, unsure if they were the right kind for the larvae and scared that he'd get caught.

But he must have done something right. The silkworms prospered in his care, so for weeks he spent most of his free time observing the hungry, hungry caterpillars devour leaf after leaf. They ate, grew, and eventually started, one by one, sowing themselves into little bundles of silk. Sadly, not all of them made it, but by the end Paul counted over a hundred little cocoons in his little box of miracles.

The day the first of them emerged was nothing short of exciting. Paul had come home to over twenty young moths crawling in and around the box. But that excitement soon turned into pity for the insects, as Paul felt the moths deserved better than his cramped living room. So the box swiftly moved to a window overlooking his humble back garden, and over the next week all of the moths departed into the wide unknown.

All of them, except for Charlie. For some reason, this one peculiar specimen stayed behind. Unlike his brethren, he never ventured outside, instead choosing to live inside Paul's house. Whenever Paul was home, he'd see Charlie follow him around as best he could, and even when out of sight, he could be reasonably sure the moth was somewhere nearby. Paul soon learned to just accept it, and instead relished the opportunity to observe the little guy.

Almost a month had passed since then, and so far Charlie was showing no signs of old age slowing him down. Were moths actually supposed to last this long? Paul wasn't sure. Most sources claimed that no, they weren't, but as far as he knew, it was possible that Charlie belonged to some sort of long-lived species.

“Aren't you just gorgeous,” Paul gushed at Charlie as the moth marched around his hand. With a few quick motions, he whipped his phone out of his pocket and turned on the camera. Paul's laptop upstairs was already full of photos and videos of larvae and moths, but he never missed a chance to take more.

Suddenly, Charlie spread out his wings, flicked them a few times and took off. He swooped from Paul's finger and crashed into the side of his neck. Paul always found it slightly uncomfortable, as even though he enjoyed Charlie's company, there was something primal about having a large insect on one's throat.

Paul slowly scooped Charlie up, careful not to hurt the moth, and rubbed his neck. He felt a new small bump growing on the side where Charlie landed, another little "love bite" that he was so fond of giving the human. Was that even something moths did? Paul had never been able to find any information on moth bites. In fact, the little he could scrounge up suggested they weren't capable of doing so at all, yet here he had indisputable evidence to the contrary. On the other hand, maybe that was just yet another way in which Charlie was special.

His gaze fell on the partly sliced mango. He picked out a nice-looking piece and set it aside on the kitchen counter, then moved Charlie over to it. He blew gently on the moth and watched as he swooped over to the piece of fruit and proceeded to go to town on the juice. The scene brought a warm smile to Paul's face. Even though he was looking forward to the smoothie, he was more than happy to share a piece of it with his friend.

He grabbed the phone and snapped a few candid shots of Charlie enjoying the feast, before returning to his beverage preparation. He quickly chopped up the rest of the fruit, tossed it into his blender and topped it up with milk and ice. As the machine whirred, he scrolled through the photos—not all of them came out great, but there were some clear winners in the batch. His favorite was a closeup of the moth's face, proboscis thrust deep into the chunk of fruit. When he squinted, the moth in the picture almost looked like he was smiling.

Paul put the phone away. He'd have to sort through the gallery later, but now he had a drink to savor. Charlie had meanwhile crawled off of his treat, apparently done with it. Paul poured a few drops of smoothie into his palm and offered it to his friend, but the moth spread his wings and flew away.

Oh well, Paul shrugged. At least he'd get more for himself. He still had a plenty of chores to take care of that evening, and hopefully they'd be just a bit more tolerable with a nice chilly smoothie in his stomach.

***

It was dark when something pushed him into the mattress.

Jostled by the sudden pressure on his chest, Paul couldn't tell whether he was dreaming or awake. The shadowy figure towering above him seemed unreal, its fuzzy outline giving it an ephemeral look. There was something inhuman about it, proportions all wrong, appendages in places where they shouldn't be, limbs bending in unnatural ways. It was out of this world, a nightmare given physical form.

On the other hand, the sword hovering mere inches above Paul's face looked terrifyingly real. Its black blade was darker than the surrounding darkness, only its single edge, polished to a silver sheen, shone into the night. The sword swayed lightly in the air, its point aimed at Paul's throat.

Paul's mouth opened. He wanted to scream, but all that came out was a strangled, bubbling gurgle.

“I've been waiting for this moment my whole life,” the figure spoke calmly. Its feminine voice was smooth, but deep. The tone was serene, but the words themselves dripped with hatred. “You will finally pay for what you've done, murderer.”

Paul sputtered. His mind was in a haze, failing to fully comprehend what was happening. He desperately wanted to say something, anything, to defend himself or beg for mercy, but the words got jumbled somewhere along the way.

“What is it?” the figure growled. “Do you have something to say for yourself?”

Paul wheezed and coughed as his assailant dug her heel deeper into his chest. “P-please...” he gasped out as he struggled to breathe, “I didn't... kill... anybo—”

“Liar!”

Three black, segmented hands shot out of the darkness and grabbed Paul's collar. The figure yanked him up and brought him face to face with her. This up close, the moment he laid his eyes on her visage, he regretted it.

Long, flowing white locks framed her pale face. Her thin black lips were pursed into a furious snarl, baring small, sharp fangs, and her pointed chin jutted past a rich, fuzzy collar. But her eyes...

Oh god, the eyes...

What stared back at him from under a pair of bushy gray eyebrows were two large holes. At first, he could see nothing but a black void in them, but after the tiniest twitch he recognized the faint glisten of hundreds of tiny pupils within each.

“My mother's blood is on your hands!” she screamed, her rage no longer tranquil. “I can smell it on you!”

Something that looked like a pair of flyswatters slapped Paul in the face. The strange instruments rubbed down his forehead, across his nose and cheeks, before retreating. Only then did Paul realize that those swatters were growing out of the assailant's forehead, jutting out from her voluminous hair.

“W-what are you?”

With all of her might, she flung Paul across the room. He soared through the air and crashed into his desk, jostling the items that cluttered it. He heaved, struggling to keep his weak stomach under control and to keep himself from passing out from pain. He braced his arms against the desk, trying to stand up, but a pair of hands slammed into his back and pushed him down onto the desktop.

“And then you display her body like some sick trophy,” she snarled. Another hand yanked on his hair and wrenched his head to the side. It pushed on his temple, pressing his head into the desk and forcing him to stare at a transparent box. “Look at her! Look at what you did, you disgusting monster!”

She held his head too close to focus, but he knew exactly what he was looking at. It was a small plastic display case he recently bought at a local hobby shop. Occasionally he'd take it with him to show off to friends or just admire, but most days he kept it on his desk in his bedroom. Inside the case, pinned to the bottom, was what he got it to preserve—the body of his first moth.

Her mother.

Wait a second.

Fluff. Antennae. Segmented eyes.

Paul's head started spinning. In an instant, all the twisted pieces fell into place to form a horrid, terrifying picture, and he wished it hadn't. He must have gone insane. There was no way some kind of human moth monster wanted to kill him in revenge for an insect he caught.

“If you have any last words, you can say them to her.” Still holding him down, she brought her sword in front of his face. The sight of its shiny tip, the impending death glistening in the dark, brought sudden clarity to his mind.

“No, wait!” he yelled, flailing in panic. “I swear I didn't kill her! I can prove it!” He frantically slapped the desk behind him, blindly feeling around where he knew he had left his laptop. As soon as his hand landed on the device, he flipped the monitor up and smacked the power button. The computer woke up in an instant and bathed both him and his assailant in blindingly bright light.

Her grip weakened. Paul tried to raise his head, but she swept him aside and he tumbled onto the carpeted floor. Dazed, he rolled over to his back and shook himself off. He braced in expectation of another attack, but that never came.

The woman stood hunched over the computer, intently staring at the glowing screen. It was still showing what Paul had last worked on in the evening—one of Charlie's photos from earlier that day. It was one that Paul thought came out nicely, a side-view closeup that showed off the moth's wing pattern really well.

“What is this... trickery?” she asked warily, her eyes glued to the image.

“No trick, this is my archive.” Paul grunted as he struggled to get back up to his feet. “All the pictures and videos I took over the past month or so.”

He walked over to the woman's side. He tried to reach for the trackpad, but she swatted his hand away impatiently as it crossed in front of the screen. Instead, he snaked his way under her arms, terrified and keeping his eye on her sword laid on the desk. He took care not to touch her, but couldn't help brushing against her soft, fuzzy sleeves.

He minimized the photo, revealing the archive folder underneath. He quickly clicked through the archive to one of the oldest parts and opened a video of a moth flying around in his living room. “She passed away from old age,” he commented over the footage. “I'm sorry, adult moths just don't really live that long.”

The moth flapped around Paul's coffee table and then the video ended. He closed the video player and opened a photo taken that same day. “She held out for a good while, though,” he carried on as he flipped through the album, “and she looked healthy for most of it. She was kinda lethargic one day, then the next day I just came home and found her dead.”

As he flipped through the photos, she glanced at his hand, swiping on the trackpad. She paused for a moment as gears started turning in her head, and then forcefully shoved Paul away. As he fell to the ground again, she took over the computer and started swiping through the gallery. He slid away from her, as far as he could before he hit a wall, and curled up. He kept his gaze on the woman, watching out for another onslaught, yet feeling completely helpless to stop it.

He eyed the closed door next to his desk. He knew he had to escape, but that meant he'd have to pass right by the intruder, and he didn't think he could outrun her. His phone was still on the bedside table. He could call 911, and even if he'd probably sound like a raving lunatic trying to convince the person on the other end that his pet moth was trying to kill him, surely they'd send someone to help. Right...?

Darkness tugged at the edges of his vision. He felt energy leaving his body as the shock slowly wore off. He tried to stand up, but his legs refused to obey. He sat and watched the woman, no longer the embodiment of pure rage, as she silently browsed the gallery, and he found that in her quiet mourning and framed by the glow of the monitor, she exuded a strange beauty. 

Meanwhile, she seemed to have completely forgotten about him. Mesmerized by the screen, she flipped through the photos until she landed on a close-up image of the first moth. Shaking, she slowly reached out, placed a hand on the monitor and muttered, "Mother..."

Then the darkness swallowed him whole.

***

He woke up on the floor in the corner of his bedroom, in a slightly uncomfortable pose and with a carpet stitch pattern stamped into his cheek. His whole body felt stiff and he left a small puddle of drool on the carpet, but oddly enough, he felt rather well rested.

His bed was a mess, the comforter was all tangled up and one pillow lied on the floor. The clutter on his desk had been knocked around. The laptop screen was up, and its power button was flashing, indicating that it was still in sleep mode.

But the mysterious intruder was gone.

Paul stood up and dusted himself off as he thought back to the previous night's events. The was no way that actually happened, right? Ninja samurai human moth monsters don't actually exist, do they? Granted, the state of his bedroom suggested that something close to what he remembered might had happened, but who's to say that he hadn't done it himself? Maybe it was some kind of somnambulic nightmare. Or maybe a psychotic break. Or that mango was laced with something.

That must be it. He simply went crazy for a moment last night. He couldn't think of a better explanation.

Not that he had time to look for one. Two things were demanding his immediate attention. The first was the sunlight seeping through the blinds, which, based on the angle and brightness, suggested that he might have overslept. The second, and by far the most obtrusive one, was the sound of his ringtone.

He suspected that the two might be related to each other.

He answered the call without even looking at the screen. “Finally!” the voice at the other end screeched before he had the chance to say anything. “Where the fuck are you?”

“I'm so sorry, Bill.” As he spoke, Paul jumped to his wardrobe and started pulling out a clean change of clothes. “I'm running a bit late, I think I turned my alarm off by mistake.”

“Well get your ass in here, I'm not pulling Beth in to sub for you again!”

“Right, I'm sorry, I swear I'll be there as soon as I can! Promise!”

Paul glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table and quietly swore. 8:24. It was even later than he first thought.

Bill's voice fell silent for a few seconds, and then he asked, much calmer this time, “Hey, are you okay, man? You sound off.”

“What? No, yeah, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm okay!” Paul sighed, picked up the pile of clothes he assembled with a single hand and headed out of the bedroom. “Look, I just had a rough night, that's all.”

“Paul, I know you don't bullshit like this. If it's serious, I'd rather you just take the day off. We can manage without you for a bit.”

“It's not, Bill, I swear. I'll be there—“

He didn't finish the sentence. As he opened the door, he was faced by a pair of large, black, segmented eyes. He screamed and shut the door again, scattering everything he was holding on the floor.

“Paul? Paul!” the phone buzzed somewhere in the pile of laundry at Paul's feet.

He stood there, hyperventilating and staring at the door in disbelief. Either he was still hallucinating, or what he saw last night was real after all.

“What's going on? Are you okay?”

He snapped out of it and grabbed the phone. “Bill?” he peeped meekly.

“Paul! What happened?”

“Uh... I think I'll take the day off after all. Is that okay?”

“Sure, but what was that?”

“I'll tell you later bye!”

Paul hurriedly clicked the “hang up” button, already regretting the promise he'd just made. That would almost certainly not be a pleasant conversation. He knew he'd either have to come up with a believable cover story that would not be too extreme, but still serious enough to justify calling off work, or just bite the bullet, tell the truth and risk sounding like a complete lunatic, and neither option sounded particularly appealing.

However, that was a bridge he would have to cross once he got to it. Currently, he had a far more pressing issue regarding whatever was waiting for him outside his bedroom. His hand hovered hesitantly over the doorknob as he pondered his next move. He eyed the window and for the briefest moment considered taking that alternate route. He rejected the idea immediately. Doing so would probably make him as insane as he already felt, and that was one of the things he didn't need to prove to himself or anybody else.

He let out a resigned sigh and grimaced as his morning breath hit his nostrils. At that moment, he realized that what he needed more than anything was a hot shower and some mouthwash. The issue of the strange supernatural assassin could wait.

Paul's small house had an equally small upper floor landing. When he stepped out of his bedroom, he had the other bedroom to one side, the bathroom to the other, a window in the opposite wall that overlooked the stairs down, and that was it. It felt cramped in the best of circumstances, and the night intruder's presence was not helping matters in the slightest.

She was still standing there in front of the window, watching him motionlessly. Her face was an expressionless stone mask, her rage now gone, but an uneasy air of danger still surrounded her. He felt like she was studying his every move, just waiting for him to step out of line.

But now, in broad daylight, she looked far less intimidating than before. She was almost a full head shorter than Paul, which he found difficult to reconcile with the image of a dark figure towering over him. She was wrapped in a long robe, a pale white garment adorned with a handful of black spots, along with a subtle dark line along the bottom hem. The voluminous fuzzy white collar, he realized, was not part of the robe, but rather sticking out from under it. She had her arms tucked inside her outfit, but he could see her legs, thin, dark and firm. What at first glance looked like leggings turned out to be chitinous segmented limbs.

Her large black eyes now looked intriguing, rather than off-putting. In the light of day, he clearly recognized each small, hexagonal pupil. Her long, ivory hair was pulled into a ponytail, held by a hair clip in the shape of a moth's wings. Her antennae protruded out of the top of her head, jutting out of her hair. They were over a foot long, slightly curved spines that each had a crescent-shaped comb of strands protruding along their entire length. The antennae twitched slightly, the only part of her that betrayed any sort of emotion.

Too bad Paul had no idea which one it was.

He stood in the doorway and stared back at her, trying not to let his confusion show. He thought he understood what was going on. He thought she’d made her intentions extremely clear that night. And yet, here she was, expressly not acting on them.

He raised his eyebrows. Her antennae drooped down. He blinked, and her eyes glistened in the morning sun.

Things were clearly going nowhere. Paul shrugged and entered the bathroom to his right. As he closed the door behind him, he saw the mysterious woman move. She stepped out towards him, raising a hand, but he shut and locked the door before she had a chance to reach it. The knob jiggled and he could hear scratching against the door, but it soon subsided and he was left alone with his thoughts.

Just like everything else in his house, the upper floor bathroom was tiny. Between the shower stall along the far wall, the sink to his right and the cabinet to his left, there was barely enough room to turn around. A window between the cabinet and the shower overlooked the backyard and the small woods beyond. There was nowhere anyone could peer inside, which was why Paul hadn't felt the need to fix the broken curtain rod over the window.

Paul reached inside the shower and turned on the hot water. Steam immediately started billowing  out of the stall and misting up the glass surfaces. Paul sputtered while he adjusted the temperature and then hesitantly cracked the window. He shed his clothes and left them on the floor before entering the shower. As the streams of hot water hit his body, they eased his mind, and he let the blissful sensation wash away all his doubts and worries, if only for a while.

*****

She was too slow. Once the door shut behind him, it refused to open again, no matter what she did. The killer had evaded her again.

No, not “the killer,” she reminded herself. He had proven that much, at least. The images he had shown her, of her mother, her siblings and herself, had spoken loud enough.

That is, they would have if she could trust the man. She didn't know what kind of tricks he was playing on her, but she was sure he was not nearly as innocent as he'd want her to believe. She just had to wait and watch, and sooner or later he would surely slip up.

Her fingers scraped against the door, but annoyingly, it still refused to budge. She reached for her sword, but then a glister of light showed her another way. She slunk over to the window, threw it open and crawled through, just as the sound of rushing water started coming from beyond the door.

*****

One long, refreshing, hot shower later, Paul felt like a new man. The warmth seeped into his body and loosened his stiff muscles, even those he wasn't aware of until now. He stepped out of the shower and stretched, and a drawn-out, satisfied groan escaped his mouth. He knew he needed this, though he hadn't realized how much until now.

However, an important question still stood before him. Embarrassingly enough, he let himself get lost in the moment, so although he meant to figure out how to approach the issue of the night intruder, he was no closer to an answer than when he woke up.

He dried himself off, wrapped his towel around himself and grabbed his toothbrush from the sink. He stared in the mirror as he squeezed paste out of the tube, the visage within putting a damper on his mood. Was he... developing bags under his eyes? Sure, the past week had been hectic, both at work and outside of it, but surely it couldn't have taken that much of a toll on him. Right? 

Paul shook his head vigorously. He was getting distracted again. He stuck the brush in his mouth and went to town on his pearly whites, the slow, rhythmic motion helping him focus on his problem.

So, this mysterious girl...  well... she was real, for one.

Yeah, that was a good place to start.

She was not a mere figment of Paul's tired and overactive imagination. She really existed, physical enough to rough him up. But as to what she was, exactly, he was stumped. She looked human, except in all of the ways in which she did not. She had those segmented eyes and bushy antennae, and she claimed the moth on his desk was her mother, so she was...

A moth?

How the hell did that work? Did she make a deal with the devil? Eat some magical beans? Did she transform through the sheer force of her anger?

And for that matter, was she...? No, of course not. Paul shook his head as he came upon a more reasonable explanation. The moth laid hundreds of eggs, so it's likely one of those young moths must have simply come back. That's all there was to it.

Paul grinned at his mirror image, happy that his world made just a little bit more sense.

On the other hand, what was up with that samurai getup? Her robe resembled a crude caricature of a traditional kimono, and the single-edged blade he remembered being pointed at his throat had a very particular shape. The only thing she was missing to complete the look was a pair of wooden sandals. But the question was, why? No matter how he wracked his brain, Paul just couldn't see an obvious connection between lepidopterans and Japanese folklore.

But oddly enough, it reminded him of the previous weekend. Lately, Paul had been on a bit of a Kurosawa kick, and so when he managed to clear an evening for himself, he indulged in a marathon of all the classics. Rashomon, Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, he knew them all by heart, yet he enjoyed every one every time he watched it. He'd fallen asleep halfway through The Hidden Fortress, but he'd be hard-pressed to tell when exactly. The rest of the movie had probably played out in his dreams.

Paul shook his head and slapped his cheek. He was getting distracted again, and he realized it was because he was uncomfortable with the topic, to the point that he'd rather think about anything else.

But maybe he was approaching it from the wrong angle. Who cared who or what she was. The big question was, why was she here? Well, she had told him why, that it was out of some strange thirst for revenge, but then she had ample opportunity to take it, and just didn't? And yet she stayed around, anyway? There had to be some weird moth logic to the whole situation, as Paul jut couldn't make heads or tails of it. Too bad he didn't have any way to divine her reasoning.

Or maybe he did. It was an idea so simple, he felt embarrassed for not having thought of it immediately.

Just ask her. You're a big boy, so put on your big boy pants and use your big boy words.

Paul spat out a mouthful of foam and flashed another, sparkling white grin at the mirror. He felt much better now. He was squeaky clean and had a solution to his problem. Not a complete solution, but it was still a step forward.

Something in the mirror caught his attention, some strange motion in the window behind him. His brain shouted at him that something shouldn't be there. Not the trees gently swaying in the distance, those had always been there. Not the silhouette of a bird gliding through the sky, that was normal. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for.

A pair of black eyes peering at him through the window.

A chill went down Paul's spine. How long had she been there? Would he have noticed her sooner, or was he truly so preoccupied with thinking about her that he so easily overlooked her presence? He nervously glanced at the door. It was locked, sure, but he could still make it out of there before she got inside.

Or maybe he just needed to get a grip. As startling as her appearance was, it was hardly a reason to panic. Especially since this was an opportunity to do what he had just resolved to.

He stepped over to the window and flung it open, and she pushed herself away, visibly startled. She was hanging off of the windowsill, grasping it with two of her hands. The other two were somehow latched onto the outer wall.

“What are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “Get inside before somebody sees you.”

The girl stared at him for a moment as her antennae bobbed gently up and down, and then she vaulted over the sill and slipped inside. Surprised by the swift movement, Paul jumped out of her way, and she silently landed in front of him. Her robe had come undone in the maneuver, and Paul caught a brief glimpse of a triangle of pale skin underneath her fuzzy collar, framed by her outfit's hems. Before he even realized he was staring at her cleavage, she straightened her robe up and pulled it closed.

The tiny bathroom suddenly felt uncomfortably cramped. Paul was backed into the gap between the sink and the shower, and yet she, standing at the window, was barely an arm's length away. She stared, silent and unmoving, into his eyes, and he could see the soft quiver of her pupils. He remembered how wide insect vision can be, and realized that even this close she could probably take in his entire figure at once. He unconsciously crossed his arms in front of his chest. She remained stone-faced, but her antennae twitched slightly.

Paul cleared his throat. “So, why were you out there, anyway?” he asked. He tried to sound as nonchalant as he could possibly muster, even though he was sweating bullets on the inside.

“Why did you run from me?” she replied calmly. “You don't look afraid. What are you hiding?”

Her antennae drooped down, their tips hovering just above Paul's head. His eyes were naturally drawn to them, and he struggled to maintain eye contact. The moth girl kept a stone face, an emotionless mask. Her expression remained neutral, and even her mouth barely moved as she spoke. On the other hand, it seemed as if her antennae had a mind of their own. The pair of crescent-shaped meshes bobbed and swayed as she moved around, they swiveled around and pointed at objects of interest, they jerked and twitched, rose and fell, spread out and came together again.

“I, no, uh... nothing...” Paul stuttered, distracted by the lively appendages. “Why would I—?”

“And then you invite me inside, anyway,” she continued. The antennae rose, but the crescents closed up so that their tips drooped down outwards, in what Paul assumed was some sort of inquisitive expression. “Why? What are you trying to achieve?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Paul responded. “You seemed pretty determined last night, but then...” He vaguely waved his hand around, unsure what exactly he was trying to say. His big boy words were failing him. “You know. Why are you even here?”

She cocked her head to the side. “You know why.”

“No, I mean why are you *still* here? I figured that by now you'd be done with, uh... whatever it is you're trying to do. Why'd you stick around?”

Her voice grew cold. “I am far from done here.”

“But why? You saw the photos, right? You know I wouldn't just—”

“I saw images. I don't know what sort of trickery you used to conjure them up, but they mean nothing. Nothing at all.”

Paul let out a sigh of frustration. “Well, why don't you just kill me, then, if you're so sure?”

“Maybe I should!”

The samurai stepped backwards and her robe flew open, as if on its own. A black hand emerged from within and wrapped its fingers around the hilt of a sword hanging at her hip. Her glare intensified even more, radiating with a burning wrath.

In contrast, Paul felt as if his whole body had frozen solid. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to run for his life, but his muscles refused to obey him. The door behind her back was so tantalizingly close, but all he could do was stand still and stare into those gargantuan onyx orbs.

His chest began to burn. Paul blinked, realizing that time had in fact not stopped, and allowed himself to slowly exhale. What had felt like a moment stretched into an eternity must have actually been about a minute. All that time, she had stood in front of him, seemingly ready to strike, but now something in her posture betrayed a strange sort of uncertainty.

“Uh...” Although Paul wasn't sure what exactly he'd expected, this certainly wasn't it. Disconcerted, he blurted out, “You okay, lady?”

The woman twitched. Her shoulders slumped and her antennae, those frightful crescents, drooped down. It looked like she'd suddenly shrunk by a full size. For the first time, she broke eye contact as she lowered her head. Her bangs fell down over her eyes, and she mumbled, almost imperceptibly, “Why?”

“Come again?”

“Why?” she repeated a little louder. “Why did you do that to her? My mother, why did you have to imprison her?”

“I...”

Paul wanted to object, but something inside him made him stop. He thought back to the day he caught the first moth, that evening when he found the insect confused and bashing against his window, when he gently scooped it into an empty jar and brought it inside his home. He wanted to argue against the woman's phrasing, but couldn't. From the moth's point of view, he realized, the jar could very well be seen as a large glass prison.

“It... The... Uh...” Paul stammered as he struggled to find the right words. “She just... appeared one day. She was... intriguing. I wanted to learn more.”

“And that gives you the right to take away her freedom?” she asked quietly.

Paul hung his head in shame. “No,” he said, “it doesn't.”

“And then to display her body in a box...”

“I just... I wanted to preserve the beauty. I couldn't bear to see it just wither away, like it was nothing.”

“Like it was nothing...” she whispered, more to herself than anybody else. She slowly let go of her weapon, turned her head away from Paul and softly ran her hand down her robe. Her finger traced a gentle circle around a black spot around the waistline as she silently muttered to herself. Paul couldn't hear a word, he only saw her lips moving, and her antennae gently rubbed against each other. She was thinking about something, but what, Paul could only guess.

“So, you, uh...” Paul figured he had an opportunity to ask his own burning question, but he still felt weird putting it into words. “Are you... Charlie?”

“That name...” she murmured. She kept looking away from him, but at least she was responding. “You gave me that name...”

*So that's a yes,* Paul thought to himself. “Well, do you have a different name?” he asked, clueless as to where he was going with it.

The woman did not answer, but silently shook her head.

“And would you mind if I keep calling you Charlie?”

A moment of hesitation, then another shake.

“So...” Paul felt like he'd lost his footing. Somewhere deep down, he had know the truth all along, he just didn't want to admit it. But that was out of the question now, and he just had to plow on. “So how did this happen? How'd you, uh, *become* like this? And why?” Her head snapped up to stare back at him, and he stumbled all over his words. “No no no, I mean I know why, but why the samurai thing?”

She kept glaring at him in silence, but her look no longer radiated that burning rage. Instead, she seemed pensive, her lips moving softly as she mulled over his words.

“Maybe you saw it somewhere?” Paul prodded gently. “Took it for yourself?”

No reaction. Charlie stared at him, but moments later her face lit up. She jerked back and her antennae snapped upwards. Paul flinched, but instead of attacking him, she twisted around and leaped straight through the window.

“No, wait! Charlie!” Paul yelled as he dashed to the window. He leaned out, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of her, but she was already gone. All he could see was his empty backyard. Annoyed, he mumbled, “You could've just used the door.”

***

It had been one of the slower days at the Bulldog Café, with mostly regular customers visiting throughout his shift. For once, he was thankful that was the case. Even though he loved meeting new people, his heart just wasn't in it that day, and he'd kept getting lost in thought, wondering how to address his new and sudden “roommate” situation.

Fortunately, it seemed that nobody had noticed his unusually sullen mood, or if they did, they hadn't bothered him about it. Even better, Roger had arrived early for the afternoon shift, so for once he could hand the place over and dip out on time—

“Hey, Paul, can I talk to you for a sec?”

—unless something like that happened, of course.

Paul sighed, let go of the door and walked back inside. Bill waved at him and disappeared in the back office. Paul rounded the register, pointedly ignoring Roger's quizzical look, and followed after the manager.

The office looked just like any other day, cluttered, but organized. Bill's desk was overflowing with paperwork, at first glance haphazardly piled up into various stacks, but a small area was cleared out for a pair of documents—a budget summary and an invoice of some sort, from what Paul could see. The corkboard on the wall behind Bill followed the same organizational scheme of several important notes surrounded by, but separated from a disorganized mess. Every other surface in the office was filled to the brim with what could be called random junk, ranging from office supplies to personal affects. The windowsill was full of potted flowers, and the ancient printer in the corner was almost hidden under reams of white paper.

Paul shut the office door behind him. He had an inkling of why the boss might had called him in, and zero desire to have rumors spread among the other servers. Bill raised an eyebrow at that, but kept whatever comment he might have had to himself. Instead, he simply pointed Paul to the one free chair in the room. Paul rejected the offered seat with a wave of the hand, and Bill shrugged.

“So, is everything okay with you, man?” the manager asked. “You've been off all day.”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Why, did somebody complain?”

“Well, no, not really. The customers didn't, at least, but the guys have noticed. Janice was asking me earlier if I knew what happened to you, and if it's something she said.”

Paul chuckled. “Yeah, that does sound like Janice. What did you tell her?”

“That it has nothing to do with her, obviously. I mean, I could tell that even if I didn't know anything else, but this is clearly because of yesterday. Right?”

Paul gritted his teeth, and his eyes slipped down to the pile of paperwork on Bill's desk. He'd known he'd have to have this talk eventually, but that didn't make it any less unpleasant.

“Right?” Bill repeated a little more insistently, and Paul nodded. “Okay. So what's going on, Paul? Look, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, and I shouldn't really even be asking this, but something's obviously bothering you, and if it's something I can help you with, I'd rather you let me know now.”

“Well, no, it's nothing to do with me,” Paul blurted out. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of the story he'd managed to come up with over his shift. “My cousin got into a fight at a bar the night before,” he explained slowly.

“Cousin?” Bill interjected. “I didn't know you had a cousin.”

“Well, she's a second cousin, you know, distant family. I don't see that branch very often, but she's in town visiting old friends. And you know, catching up with cousins inbetween all that.”

“Right...”

“So anyway, Rachel went clubbing the night before yesterday, and I guess things got ugly and she took a few punches and I had to go and pick her up in the middle of the night.”

“Oh.” Bill sounded genuinely concerned. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she's doing fine, actually. She just looked horrible the morning after, black eye, swollen mouth, scratches, you know. But she's always been a bit of a tomboy, so she walked it off pretty easy. I'm told the other girl ended up much worse.”

“Ah, well, that's good,” Bill exclaimed, visibly relieved, but then his eyes widened in shock as his brain caught up to his mouth. “I-I mean it's not, I mean I'm glad it's nothing serious, you know...” He paused and cleared his throat before adding, “So you're fine, then? Nothing that's gonna impact work?”

“No, I promise it's fine. Is that all? 'Cause I was just about to head home.”

“Well...” Bill stared at him for a moment, gears visibly spinning in his head. “Yeah, that's all. Have a nice weekend, Paul.”

“Thanks, man. You too.”

Bill nodded and turned to the documents on his desk. Paul walked out of the office, but stopped in the doorway and added, “Oh, and could you tell Beth that I can pick up a couple of her shifts next week, please? I owe her big time for yesterday.”

“Sure, man, no problem,” Bill waved him off, his attention already fully captured by work. Paul gave a cheerful goodbye to Roger, who was furiously wiping down the counter while pretending not to listen, and briskly left the café. As he crossed the street, he spared a quick thought for Rachel. She wouldn't mind him using that incident from the summer last year for a little white lie, he was sure of that, but he felt no need to make any unnecessary confessions, anyway.

Paul's ol' rustbucket was parked on the other side of the street in the nice, cool shadow of the downtown buildings opposite the café, surrounded on both sides by a solid line of cars. It was always a struggle to capture one of these spots before they filled up in the morning, and Paul had to get up extra early to get here in time, but the sacrifice was well worth being able to hop in and immediately drive out without having to wait around with all doors open until the car cooled down to a survivable temperature.

As he peeled out of the parking spot, his mind turned back towards the previous day's events. He hadn't seen much of, uh, Charlie after their brief chat, but he knew she had stuck around. While making breakfast, he'd caught her watching through a doorway, and later, as he was sorting through his humble movie collection, he turned around to see her just standing in the corer of his living room. Every time, as soon as she'd seen him notice her, she'd hastily scurry away or duck out of view, only to resume stalking him shortly thereafter.

Paul had tried to ignore her and just go about his day, reminding himself that being tracked through his home was vastly preferable to being roughed up or threatened with death. Naturally, he'd cracked before lunchtime. Continuously seeing those black eyes at the edges of his visions had eventually become too oppressive, and he had opted to leave the house. He had a few errands to run that he had been planning to take care of, which had provided a handy excuse to get out for a few hours.

On the flip side, that meant he now had no reason to stop anywhere on his way home. Not even the gas station outside his neighborhood, he realized as he glanced at the fuel gauge, hovering just below “F”—a rare sight in his car, especially nowadays. As Paul neared the turn onto the street he lived on, he considered delaying the inevitable, driving straight and going on a joyride. However, he decided against it and turned right towards home, feeling a twinge of shame knowing that his decision was ultimately influenced far more by current gas prices than the need to face his problems head-on.

Paul drove past the eclectic row of small houses that made up his neighborhood and pulled into his driveway. He turned the engine off, but stayed in the car and stared at his humble abode, carefully scanning the windows for... Charlie's face. Once he was confident that this time she wasn't watching the front for him, he stepped out of the car and walked to the front door.

There still was one more issue that needed to be addressed, though, one that he'd spent the entire day  dancing around. The name. Yes, he'd given it to her, and yes, she had accepted it, but that did not make using it feel any less awkward.

He'd originally chosen the name “Charlie” as a lark, just playfully throwing it out one evening at his pet moth. But it'd felt fitting as a cute name for a cute critter, so he'd simply kept using it. Now, however, in her strange, new, way more feminine form, it felt far less appropriate.

But that was only part of the reason, he realized as he entered the house. He still found it difficult to accept that this mysterious samurai assassin was the same Charlie as the insect that he'd watched grow from egg to silkworm, to cocoon, all the way to adult moth. He tossed his keys into the bowl next to the entrance door and absentmindedly rubbed his neck, running his fingers across a series of small bumps.

Ah yes, the love bites. Those affectionate marks given to him by the little guy. Even if Charlie's species shouldn't be able to leave a mark like that on human skin, she nonetheless found a way to give him those little itchy kisses. He had once managed to capture a photo of the act, and it had quickly become his favorite picture as it depicted the unique bond he shared with the moth.

Paul smiled as he fondly remembered the image. He had it saved on all devices, but he rarely needed to look at it anymore as it was safely etched into his memory down to the smallest detail. How it was only slightly off-center, how the light reflected off Charlie's half-folded wings, how her antennae stretched out to the collar of his shirt, how how she stuck one of her legs out to the side, how her fluffy coat bristled like an angry cat's fur.  And of course, the kiss itself. He vividly recalled Charlie's proboscis leaned against his neck, its tip barely piercing the skin.

The photo had always reminded Paul of how the moth would treat the fruit treats he'd given her, the hungry sucker piercing the soft flesh of a mango or a kiwi.

This time, it evoked the image of a katana sticking out of darkness, pointed at his throat.

A pained gurgle escaped Paul's throat as the two images coalesced in his mind into one big, ugly picture. Unconsciously, his fingers gripped the side of his neck and the bumps in its side impressed themselves into his palm, a reminder of a vendetta hidden in plain sight. Could that tiny creature really have harbored such intense hatred for him?

His knees buckled. He barely caught himself on the table beside him and his elbow slammed on the bowl atop it, launching the keys inside across the room. Hyperventilating, his vision went blurry. He heard footsteps behind him and struggled to push himself around, which he immediately regretted. Through the fog that set upon him, he could only make out a pair of jet black eyes coming out of the living room. Paul screamed in terror as those dark orbs descended upon him.

***