A Curse Upon Thee 3-7

The scent of Kurosawa-san’s cigarette wafted up from the second floor, Finn wrinkling his nose against cheap tobacco. Okay. He snapped his phone shut and slipped the clamshell back into his pocket, a sigh leaving his lips. Okay…

A call with the fixer had gone as usual, the woman on the other end straight-laced and straightforward as usual; all the way down to wanting a full report of the fight and everything he did during it. She said it was just to know how he fought and to set him up with Devils he could handle better but Finn honestly didn’t care what she threw him at.

Long as it’s not as bad as a Grade One. Thankfully, none of these Devils seemed to compare to even a Semi-Grade One Curse. No matter what, he wasn’t worried about it enough to spend his time writing reports. You could not pay me enough for that.

She really didn’t pay him, even, more just putting him in touch with the people that did hand over the fat stacks of yen. Sure, he appreciated that but, alsooooo, doing homework after a fight like that wasn’t something he’d ever be down to do.

Finn leaned over the rusted railing, the view from the third floor of Maison Takase as beautiful as it usually was; all shitty roofs, utility poles, and Kyoto Station in the distance. The more he looked around, the more the redhead was reminded exactly why he didn’t like to spend much time taking in the sights of northern Sūjin.

His eyes went down instead of up, the tarp on his flatbed staring back at him from the ground floor. Blue plastic was tied down right and tight, his kei parked on the gravel lot in front of the building beside a too-tall stack of wet cardboard. 

He’d have to get behind the wheel soon again, at least before the landlord came around and started asking questions about why the gaijin’s flatbed smelled like the back-alley of a slaughterhouse.

Minami-ku office. Just off of Kisshōin, it was at most a fifteen-minute drive from here and it was one he’d taken a half-dozen times already. He knew the rules, too, well-aware of what he had to say and not say. Go past the stalls to the proper service desk all the way to the left. Don’t mention an index rating, just let them weight it first.

The instructions the fixer had rattled off that first day still bounced around in his head, the same ones she repeated at the end of every finished job. 

Get down there soon. Definitely no longer than an hour to get it over there, all that Devil meat weighed and logged. As soon as he got that envelope full of fresh bills and a half ton of dead pig-monster off his truck, he’d be a lot happier.

Mostly the money part, though.

Finn turned, the door to his unit opening as he put his shoulder into it. The second it swung shut behind him, he stopped at the doorway.

The egg was still on the table.

Not that he expected it to be anywhere else or walk off or anything, but it was still… odd.

Not the weirdest thing at this point, but still; an egg worthy of an ostrich with the glass canister it came with taking up most of that low table. The egg sat inside it, bigger than his own head, a pale off-white with little spots as it rested on a cushioned bottom. His stuff surrounded the egg canister itself — his wallet, a pile of receipts, and his Slaughter Demon; all the above next to his coffee cup from this morning.

Mal herself was on the floor, the girl lying on her stomach with her chin propped up just three feet from the CRT. Finn might as well have been a ghost because she didn’t bother to look up at all, far too entranced by the girl on-screen. Roses everywhere, somebody was doing an overdramatic monologue as a girl in a red jacket climbed a staircase that went up into the sky or something.

“So, you wanna talk about it?”

She didn’t even blink.

“Y’know, the egg. The giant egg. In our… Mal, it’s on the table.”

“Shhh.”

Blue eyes narrowed halfway to slits. “Did you just—”

“Shhh!”

Another sigh and a few steps took him across the whole of the apartment, Finn stepping over Mal’s back to crouch down next to the canister. Those same blue eyes blinked slow as he stared at the thing, forearms on his knees as he mustered up some patience and brainpower to figure it out. 

…hm.

A whole ten seconds later and he’d come to a conclusion. This is boring.

Unfortunately, it was.

The egg hadn’t bothered moving or twitching and he couldn’t see any cracks in its smooth surface either. It was the same as it had been since it popped into his flatbed an hour ago just like this, no label or little card or a sticker with a phone number.

No anything.

Granted, that part wasn’t all that new to him, considering nothing else had bothered to land by him with a courtesy manual. Slaughter Demon certainly hadn’t, but it wasn’t like you needed that for a dagger. 

And, honestly, he didn’t need one for the sword either, considering Emma had figured it out in under a day and that fancy bow that had literally dropped onto his chest after he fought the Grade One…

You’d think Mary Margaret had been using that thing for years, honestly. Hell, the only thing he would even kinda have needed a manual for was that scroll he had and it was pretty much just a basic Cursed Tool.

Another sigh left him, the sound drowned out by the music on the screen. He couldn’t even complain though, because stuff just showed up. By the time his ass landed in that forest, Finn was already used to shrugging it off. Still, though…

A knuckle rapped the glass, the surface of the thing oddly warm. Oddly? His mouth turned down into a frown. It’s an egg. Eggs need heat, dumbass.

Shaking his head again, Finn focused back on the egg and not his lack of understanding of biology because there was another question bouncing around in there. Why do I know you?

Finn knew that he knew this thing, not the egg itself — he’d never been close enough to an ostrich for that — but the shape of it still sat somewhere back behind his eyes in the mess of memories where his life was supposed to be.

It was there, almost.

Right there.

And then it slid away.

“Ugh.”

Finn rolled his eyes over to Mal, the groan catching his attention. “You alright over there?”

“Just looking at this coward.” Mal rolled onto her side, the girl throwing out one hand at the screen. “Brooding coward refuses to duel.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know that egg’s not doing anything, right?”

“Yeah, and your guy in the—” Is that a marching band jacket? “—the fancy coat isn’t doing a damn thing either, but you’re still watching him.”

A green-gold glare was aimed his way, but Mal didn’t bother arguing as the show came back from a transition. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Finn’s hand went to his chest as he kept staring at the egg, fingers feeling at the locket under his shirt — the metal warm against his chest.

The red heart looked cheap, like something out of a claw machine, but it had still managed to eat a heart-ripping spell from Cora and thrown the witch across the room.

And still no manual. “Hey.”

“Nnh.”

“Mal.”

“What.”

He tapped the glass with a knuckle again, head nodding in sync as he kept his eyes on it. “What do you think it is?”

“An egg.”

Eyelids slid down as Finn glanced over at the girl. “Be serious.”

“Fine.” Mal pushed herself up onto her elbows to squint at the canister. “What? Is it a dragon?”

…no. He wasn’t sure exactly why he knew that wasn’t it. Dragon was a guess, of course, and one he couldn’t call crazy just because — especially because Mal’s mom could turn into one of them. The egg was big enough for it and dragons came out eggs in pretty much every story that had one in them.

The only reason he had to doubt it was that as soon as Mal offered it up, something in the back of his head went nope; a flat and immediate rejection of the idea. “...nah, I don’t think so.”

Five fingers rubbed at the back of his neck, burn-scarred fingers scratching under his hair. “I… yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not sure what it is, but…”

He gave the canister another look, before straightening up with a sigh. But what? He really didn’t know and, even as he took himself over to the kitchenette, nothing came to him as an answer. Behind him, the show finally ended — familiar outro musing rolling through the living room.

“Finn.” He didn’t need to turn around to hear the noise of a certain girl in socks getting up off the floor. “Finn.”

“Water’s running.” That wasn’t much of an answer, but his name wasn’t much of a question either.

“Finnyyy.”

“Yeah, I hear you, Mal.”

“It’s ooooo~ver.” A purple head of hair came around the corner of the kitchenette and stopped there as she whined longer than the word had space for. “It’s over and I didn’t get to appreciate the end because somebody was talking about a jar.”

“It’s not a jar.”

“And now they’re showing nothing.”

Finn leaned past her, one eyebrow high at the bright screen over her shoulder; loud-bright and saturated with some kid in a hat running down a dirt road. “...that’s nothing?”

“Some boy.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“It is for children, Finneas.”

He stood back, blinking at the girl in front of him. “...I can tell you’re saying my name wrong, but I don’t know how." Finn dried his hands with a dishtowel, looking past her again to the kid on the screen and then back down to the egg in the canister — a strong sense of familiar that he just couldn’t put a finger on. Huh…

He glanced back at Mal, the girl standing in his kitchenette — Where’d her socks go? Where’d she get my t-shirt from? — radiating a growing boredom. Hm.

“Hey, Mal.”

“What.”

“How bout you take care of it for me?”

Green-gold eyes narrowed back at him. “What am I taking care of?”

“The egg, dummy.” Finn nodded past her, a grunt leaving his lips with the insult. “Till it hatches.”

“...why?” Mal raised her own eyebrow his way. “As in why should I?”

Because you’re kind of a lazy bitch. He obviously didn’t say that though. “Because I’ve got a Devil in the truck and business to handle and all you do is sit around watching anime.”

“...mmm.”

“And…” Finn rolled his eyes, already seeing Mal build an argument in her eyes. “I figure it’ll be good for you, you know? Little bit of responsibility and character building.”

“Character b-”

“Yeah, might make you less of a brat.”

Mal’s face twisted up even worse. “Less of a—”

“Come on, princess? What else are you doing other than watching the dumb show with the sword and the roses and all the—”

“Do not talk about Utena.”

“I’m just sayin’...”

"You have not watched Utena.” A manicured hand pointed right at his face. “You do not get to talk about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Finn eyed the canister one more time, a grin spreading across his face before he’d even decided on it. “And, look on the bright side, if it does somehow turn out to be a dragon? Maybe it eats you and I get some peace and quiet.”

The TV kept playing as Mal stared at him, the kid in the anime yelling something out loud as he threw a ball. “If I could take my mother’s shape right now, Finneas, I would eat you… slowly, and make sure to chew.”

…yeah, okay. Finn tilted his head. “Big if, there.”

She held the stare another two seconds longer, a disgusted noise leaving her as she stomped back into the living room. She didn’t even look at the TV as she dropped down to the floor, in front of the table. Crossing her legs, Mal held one hand flat on the glass. “I’m gonna hatch this thing and make it bite you.”

“You do that.” He was already looking for his keys, which were on the counter — his eyes dropping to the table where it sat with everything else. “Get your shoes on.”
“Why?”

“Because we’ve got some dead pig to haul, dummy.” Keys in hand, Finn checked his pocket for his card and went through his other pocket for his phone. “It’s been down there for a couple hours already and I’m not doing this at eight o’clock when the whole building’s out on their balconies.”

"Can I not simply stay here w—"

"Nuh-uh."

"—ith my egg?”

"Your egg." Eyes mid-roll, Finn jabbed the keys over at her. "Shoes."

Mal groaned out loud as if she was going to be carrying the truck on her back, the girl getting up as she went for her boots — all nine buckles on each taking her almost two minutes to do up.

Finn shrugged his jacket on, red leather only a little stiff, and found himself humming to the jingle still playing on the TV. He leaned forward and went to turn it off, finger out. "Gotta catch 'em a—"

His finger stopped inches from the power button, blue eyes blinking at the screen as his mouth kept moving silently. …what.

"Are we going or are we not going?"

"...yeah." He turned the TV off. "We're going."