One year later…

The underground has never been quiet. Even though the raised voices might die down, and the stray cats might stop yowling, and the tick-ticking of the glass clocktower might pause, there will always be noise.

No one knew better than Airin Mu.

You never do miss the noise until it is gone, Airin thought as she traced her design onto the patron’s arm. It was slow, precise work, and it was the only time she ever travelled at the same speed as anyone else. She paused between strokes to admire her work. This one was a peacock in flight, wrought in chiffon and dripping with diamonds. Its eyes were a piercing green that seemed to follow you if you didn’t stop and admire its beauty.

The peacock spoke to you, as art often does. And yet, its words weren't enough to fill the soulless void where sound used to be in Airin’s mind. There wasn’t a day that goes by that she doesn’t think about the incident. It’s hard to believe your entire world could come crashing down in the span of moments. One second, she was putting the finishing touches on an unauthorized street mural. The next, her ears were bleeding, and the world never sounded like anything again.

They called the sonic weapon a “fluke” and a “mistake.” To their credit, they did try to make things right. They swapped out the sonic cannon for a ray that paralyzed a baby, then again for molecular destabilization rods that were nuclear reactions waiting to happen. They offered to put her through art school, hire her as a painter, a tutor. They offered her peace and happiness, but when she asked if she could hear again, all they could do was shake their heads.

This is fine, she thought. I will survive. And she did. Sort of.

Halfway through inking, Airin finally realized the patron was chatting at her. She couldn’t very well ink and watch him talk at the same time, so she picked up the word “sister,” got bored, and never looked back up.

The feathers were falling into place, broad strokes of blue and green that melted into glittering diamonds. She beamed at the design. She should take a picture.

A stray cat from the street wandered in through the cat flap, meowing in confusion. Airin made an elaborate shrugging gesture that she hoped meant “I have to feed the cat,” and left the poor patron in bewilderment mid-tattoo.

Airin started this salon a year ago to fund an eventual sanctuary for cats, but apparently her skills were good enough that she now has a customer base and an apprentice. It’s amazing how many surface people come down here to her quaint little shop in the middle of the underground just to get their nails painted or their hair done. She gets her news from gossiping spouses these days, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about them. It’s not that she didn't care about Brad’s third husband (she didn't), she just kept seeing them as marks, pigeons, fools waiting to be fleeced. Her criminal mentality clung to her like a drunk who drank one too many, but all she wanted to do was have another round. She tried to rent the spot outside to pickpockets, but it didn’t work out.

Airin ran her fingers through the cat’s fuzzy fur and fed it small strips of unsalted bacon. The cat door was a must, of course. Patrons sometimes complained that she likes cats more than humans, and that’s because it’s so obviously true. Cats don’t care if you’re young or deaf or a crook. They love you all the same. Humanity is nothing compared to the massive continuity of cats.

The calico, who she decided to name “Calico” appropriately, bumped her face on Airin’s hand. Airin kissed Calico’s soft little forehead and sent her on her way with a sticker that read “Sandy Salon” on a picture of a sand-coloured cat. She had no idea if the guerrilla marketing scheme even worked, but she liked seeing cats wandering around wearing stickers of other cats.

“Sorry about the cat,” she wrote on a chalkboard, and went back to work on the peacock tattoo.

The ground buzzed to let her know that someone was entering the shop. She spared a glance. Two women sashayed in, talking about perms. Airin waved to her apprentice to take them and continued the tattoo.

The eye was taking forever. She couldn’t get its golden eyelashes just right, and there were no undo buttons for ink. She hummed angrily. She needed a break.

That’s when she noticed the women whispering and pointing at her. She was used to the stares and conversations in hushed tones behind cupped hands, but what caught her eyes were the words “Team Underground.” Airin blinked.

When they saw her looking, they stopped pointing, but they didn’t stop talking. They seemed to think she couldn’t hear them over the sound of the hairdryers. They weren’t wrong; however, Airin had cause to learn how to read lips, and she’d had lots of practice.

The one with the butterfly earrings said, “....and they finally... the pictures.”

“... you think it’s her?” The other replied, trying in vain to smooth out her untamable afro.

“It should be. The fast…… was………… one”

The other gasped daintily. “........ murdered…. him?”

“In his own office!”

“In his own office?”

And that’s how, at 3 A.M., standing in a dingy tattoo parlour with an ink gun in one hand and chalk dust on the other, Airin learned she had apparently killed the president.